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THE 


LAMPLIGHTE 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

1883. 


Copyright,  1854, 
Bt  JOHN  P.  JEWETT  &  COMPANY. 

(^opTrigbt,  1882, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIPFLIN  &  COMPAOT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Good  God !  to  think  upon  a  child 

That  has  no  childish  days, 
No  careless  play,  no  frolics  wild, 

No  words  of  prayer  and  praise ! 

Landon. 

It  was  growing  dark  in  the  city.  Out  in  the  open  country  it 
would  be  light  for  half  an  hour  or  more;  but  within  the  close 
streets,  where  my  story  leads  me,  it  was  already  dusk.  Upon  the 
wooden  door-step  of  a  low-roofecl,  dark,  and  unwhoJesome-Iooking 
house,  sat  a  little  girl,  who  was  gazing  up  the  street  with  much 
earnestness.  The  house-door,  which  was  open  behind  her,  was 
close  to  the  sidewalk ;  and  the  step  on  which  she  sat  was  so  low 
that  her  little  unshod  feet  rested  on  the  cold  bricks.  It  was  a 
chilly  evening  in  November,  and  a  light  fall  of  snow,  which  had  made 
everything  look  bright  and  clean  in  the  pleasant,  open  squares, 
near  which  the  fine  houses  of  the  city  were  built,  had  only  served 
to  render  the  narrow  streets  and  dark  lanes  dirtier  and  more  cheer- 
less than  ever;  for,  mixed  with  the  mud  and  filth  which  abound 
in  those  neighborhoods  where  the  poor  are  crowded  together,  the 
beautiful  snow  had  lost  all  its  purity. 

A  great  many  people  were  passing  to  and  fro,  bent  on  their 
various  errands  of  duty  or  of  pleasure  ;  but  no  one  noticed  the 
little  girl,  for  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  who  cared  for  her. 
She  was  scantily  clad,  in  garments  of  the  poorest  description. 
Her  hair  was  long  and  very  thick ;  uncombed  and  unbecoming, 
if  anything  could  be  said  to  be  unbecoming  to  a  set  of  features 
1* 


6  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

wliicli,  toa  casual  olserver,  had  not  a  single  attractiv:)n,  —  being 
thin  and  starp,  while  her  complexion  was  sallow,  and  her  whole 
appearance  unhealthy. 

She  had,  to  be  sure,  fine,  dark  eyes ;  but  so  unnaturally  large 
did  they  seem,  in  contrast  to  her  thin,  puny  face,  that  thoy  only 
increased  the  peculiarity  of  it,  without  enhancing  its  beauty 
Had  any  one  felfc  any  interest  in  her  (which  nobody  did),  had 
she  had  a  mother  (which,  alas  I  she  had  not),  those  friendly 
and  partial  eyes  would,  perhaps,  have  found  something  in  her 
to  praise.  As  it  was,  however,  the  poor  little  thing  was  told,  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  that  sha  was  the  worst4ooking  child  in  the 
world,  and,  what  was  more,  the  worst-behaved.  No  one  loved 
her,  and  she  loved  no  one  ;  no  one  treated  her  kindly ;  no  one 
tried  to  make  her  happy,  or  cared  whe^.her  she  were  so.  She 
was  but  eight  years  old,  and  all  alone  in  the  world. 

There  was  one  thing,  and  one  only,  which  she  found  pirasure 
in.  She  loved  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  old  man  who  lit 
the  street-lamp  in  front  of  tha  house  where  she  lived ;  to  see  the 
bright  torch  he  carried  flicker  in  the  wind;  and  then,  when  he 
ran  up  his  ladder,  lit  the  lamp  so  quickly  and  easily,  and  made 
the  whole  place  seem  cheerful,  one  gleam  of  joy  was  shed  on  a 
little  desolate  heart,  to  which  gladness  was  a  stranger;  and, 
though  he  had  never  seemed  to  see,  and  certainly  had  never 
spoken  to  her,  she  almost  felt,  as  she  watched  for  the  old  lamp- 
lighter,  as  if  he  were  a  friend. 

**Gerty,"  exclaimed  a  harsh  voice  within,  ''have  you  been  for 
the  milk?" 

The  child  made  no  answer,  but,  gliding  off  the  door-step,  ran 
quickly  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  hid  a  little  out  of  sight. 

"What's  become  of  that  child?"  said  the  woman  from  whom 
the  voice  proceeded,  and  who  now  showed  herself  at  the  door. 

A  boy  who  was  passing,  and  had  seen  Gerty  run,  —  a  boy  who 
had  caught  the  tone  of  the  whole  neighborhood,  and  looked  upon 
her  as  a  sort  of  imp  or  spirit  of  evil, — laughed  aloud,  pointed 
to  the  corner  which  concealed  her,  and,  walking  off  with  his  head 
over  his  shoulder,  to  see  what  would  happen  next,  exclaimed  ta 
himself  as  he  went,    She  '11  catch  it  I    Nan  Grant  '11  fix  hei !  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


7 


In  a  moment  more,  Gerty  was  dragged  from  lier  hiding-place, 
and,  with  one  blow  for  her  ugliness  and  another  for  her  impu* 
dence  (for  she  was  making  up  faces  at  Nan  Grant  with  all  her 
might),  she  was  despatched  duwn  a  neighboring  alley  with  a  kettle 
for  the  milk. 

She  ran  fast,  for  she  feared  the  lamplighter  would  come  and 
go  in  her  absence,  and  was  rejoiced,  on  her  return,  to  catch 
sight  of  him,  as  she  drew  near  the  house,  just  going  up  his  lad- 
der. She  stationed  herself  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  was  so  engaged 
in  watching  the  bright  flame,  that  sh^  did  not  observe  when  the 
man  began  to  descend;  and,  as  she  was  directly  in  his  way,' he 
hit  against  her,  as  he  sprang  to  the  ground,  and  she  fell  upon  the 
pavement.  Hollo,  my  little  one  !  "  exclaimed  he,  how's  this  ?  " 
as  he  stooped  to  lift  her  up. 

She  was  upon  her  feet  in  an  instant ;  for  she  was  used  to  hard 
knocks,  and  did  not  much  mind  a  few  bruises.  But  the  milk  !  — 
it  was  all  spilt. 

**Well,  now,  I  declare!^'  said  the  man,  that's  too  bad  !  — 
what'll  mammy  say?"  and,  for  the  first  time  looking  fall  in 
Gerty 's  face,  he  hero  interrupted  himself  with,  My  !  what  an 
odd-faced  child  !  —  looks  like  a  witch  !  "  Then,  seeing  that  she 
looked  apprehensively  at  the  spilt  milk,  and  gave  a  sudden  glanco 
up  at  the  house,  he  added,  kindly,  She  wont  be  hard  on  such 
a  mite  of  a  thing  as  you  are;  will  she?  Cheer  up,  my  ducky  ! 
never  mind  if  she  does  scold  you  a  little.  I  '11  bring  you  some- 
thing to-morrow,  that  I  think  you  '11  like,  maybe;  you  're  such 
a  lonesome  sort  of  a  looking  thing.  And,  mind,  if  the  old 
woman  makes  a  row,  tell  her  I  .did  it.  But  did  n't  I  hurt  you  ? 
What  was  you  doing  with  my  ladder?  " 

I  was  seeing  you  light  the  lamp,"  said  Gerty,  and  I  an't 
Lurt  a  bit;  but  I  wish  1  had  n't  spilt  the  milk." 

At  this  moment  Nan  Grant  came  to  the  door,  saw  what  had 
happened,  and  commenced  pulling  the  child  into  the  house,  amidst 
blows,  threats,  and  profane  and  brutal  language.  The  lamplighter 
tried  to  appease  her ;  but  she  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  Gerty 
was  scolded,  beaten,  deprived  of  the  ^rist  which  she  usually  got 
for  her  supper,  and  shut  up  in  her  dark  attic  for  the  night.  Poor 
little  child  I    Her  mother  ha  \  died  in  Nan  Grant's  house  five  years 


g  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

before  :  and  slie  tad  been  tolerated  tbere  since,  not  so  ffiUcTi  bo. 
cause  when  Ben  Grant  went  to  sea  he  had  bade  h^s  wue  bo  sure  and 
keep  the  ehild  until  his  return  (for  he  had  been  gone  so  long  ha 
no  o'ne  thought  he  would  ever  come  back)  but  because  Nan  h  d 
reasons  of  h^r  own  for,  doing  so ;  and.  though  she  considered  Gerty 
a  dead  weight  upon  her  hands,  she  did  not  care  to  excite  m^mnes 
bv  tryin-v  to  dispose  of  her  elsewhere. 
^Vhen  Gerty  first  found  herself  locked  up  for  the  night  m  the 
dark  garret  (Gerty  hated  and  feared  the  dark),  she  stood  for  a 
minut^  perfectly  still ;  then  suddenly  began  to  stamp  and  screatn 
Ld  to  beat  open  the  door,  and  shouted.  "  I  hate  you.  ^an  Gran 
OldNanGrant,  Ihateyou!"    But  nobody  came  near  her ;  and^^ 
after  a  while,  she  grew  more  quiet,  went  and  threw  herseU  down 
:n  her  miserable  bed.  covered  her  face  with  her  htde  thm  hand 
.nd  sobbed  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break.    She  wept  until 
;he:fsutterlyexhausted;  and  then,  gradually  with  only  now  a^ 
fc^en  a  low  sob  and  catching  of  the  breath  she  grew  quite  tdh 
By  and  by  she  took  away  her  hands  from  her  face,  clasped  them 
Se  1  r  in  a  convulsive  manner,  and  looked  up  at  a  bttle  gla.ed 
w  by  the  side  of  the  bed.    It  was  but  three  panes  of  g  ass 
Tevenly  Lck  together,  and  was  the  only  c  ance  of  h^i^  t^  loo. 
bad.    There  was  no  moon  ;  but  as  Gerty  looked  up  she  ^w 
2L^^  die  window  shining  down  upon  her  one  br.g^i  star  S 
ho„<^it  she  had  never  seen  anything  half  so  beaut,ful.    She  had 
Itn  been  out  of  doors  when  the  sky  was  full  o  stars,  and  had 
:ot  iced  the.  much  ;  but  this  one.  all  alone  so  ^f->^^l 
and  yet  so  soft  and  pleasant-looking,  seemed  o  ^P-V^J^-^^; 
eeemcd  to  sav.  "  Gerty.  Gerty  !  poor  little  Gerty  !      She  thought 
"  med  I  ke  a  kind  face,  such  as  she  had  a  long  time  ago  ..en 
Vramt  about.    Suddenly  it  flashed  tl^-^i  her  .n.n^J  .0 
litit'?    Somebody  lit  it!    Some  good  person,  I  know !    Oh  how 
could'  he  get  up'so  high!"    And  Gerty  fell  asleep,  wondering 

^^rir^tttWt.  benighted  soul!  Who  shaynlighten 
.bee.  Thou  a.  Gad's  child  htt.  ^^^^^  ^^^^^ 
Will  I18  not  send  man  or  angol  to  ligat  up  mt.  ^ 

a  hght  that  shall  never  go  out.-the  light  that  shaU  shine 
through  ail  eternity? 


CHAPTEK  II. 


Who  shall  assuage  thy  griefs,  "  thou  tempest-tossM  i " 
And  speak  of  comfort,  "  comfortless ! "  to  thee  ? 

Emus  Tjltlob. 

Gbetv  awoke  the  next  morning,  not  as  children  wake  who  ar» 
roused  by  each  other's  merry  voices,  or  by  a  parent's  kiss,  who 
have  kind  hands  to  help  them  dress,  and  know  that  a  nice  brcak- 
fiist  awaits  them.    But  she  heard  harsh  voices  below ;  knew,  from 
the  sound,  that  the  men  who  lived  at  Nan  Grant's  (her  son  and 
two  or  three  boarders)  had  come  in  to  breakfast,  and  that  her  only 
chance  of  obtaining  any  share  of  the  meal  was  to  be  on  the  spot 
when  they  had  finished,  to  take  that  portion  of  what  remained 
which  Nan  might  chance  to  throw  or  shove  towards  her.    So  she 
crept  down-stairs,  waited  a  little  out  of  sight  until  she  smelt  the 
smoke  of  the  men's  pipes  as  they  passed  through  the  passage,  and, 
when  they  had  all  gone  noisily  out,  she  slid  into  the  room,  lookin-r 
about  her  with  a  glance  made  up  of  fear  and  defiance.    She  m°t 
but  a  rough  greeting  from  Nan,  who  told  her  she  had  better  drop 
that  ugly,  sour  look;  eat  some  breakfast,  if  she  wanted  it,  but 
take  care  and  keep  out  of  her  way,  and  not  come  near  the  firo 
plagumg  round  where  she  was  at  work,  or  she  'd  get  another 
dressmg,  worse  than  she  had  last  night. 

Gerty  had  not  looked  for  any  other  treatment,  so  there  was  no 
disappomtment  to  bear;  but,  glad  enough  of  the  miserable  food 
le.t  for  her  on  the  table,  swallowed  it  eagerly,  and,  waiting  no 
second  biddmg  to  keep  herself  out  of  the  way,  took  her  little  old 
hood,  threw  on  a  ragged  shawl,  which  had  belono-ed  to  her 
mother,  and  which  had  long  been  the  child's  best  protraction  from 
the  cold,  and,  though  her  hands  and  feet  were  chilled  by  the  sharp 
m  of  the  morning,  ran  out  of  the  house. 


10 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEE. 


Back  of  the  building  where  Nan  Grant  lived,  was  a  large  vooi 
end  coal  yard;  and  beyond  that  a  wharf,  and  the  thick,  muddy 
water  of  the  dock.    Gerty  might  have  found  playmates  enough  in 
the  neighborhood  of  this  place.    She  sometimes  did  mingle  with 
the  troops  of  boys  and  girls,  equally  ragged  with  herself,  who 
played  about  in  the  yard,  but  not  often,— there  was  a  leaguS 
against  her  among  the  children  of  the  place.    Poor,  ragged,  and 
m°iserab!y  cared  for,  as  most  of  them  were,  they  all  knew  that 
Gerty  was  still  more  neglected  and  abused.    They  had  often  seen 
her  beaten,  and  daily  heard  her  called  an  ugly,  wicked  child,  told 
that  she  belonged  to  nobody,  and  had  no  business  in  any  one's 
house.    Children  as  they  were,  they  felt  their  advantage,  and 
scorned  the  little  outcast.    Perhaps  this  would  not  have  been  the 
case  if  Gerty  had  ever  mingled  freely  with  them,  and  tried  to  be 
on  friendly  terms.    But,  while  her  mother  lived  there  with  her, 
thousrh  it  was  but  a  short  time,  she  did  her  best  to  keep  her  little 
girl  away  from  the  rude  herd.    Perhaps  that  habit  of  avoidance, 
but  still  more  a  something  in  the  child's  nature,  kept  her  from 
joining  in  their  rough  sports,  after  her  mother's  death  had  left  her 
to  do^as  she  liked.    As  it  was,  she  seldom  had  any  intercourse 
with  them.    Nor  did  they  venture  to  abuse  her,  otherwise  than  in 
words  ;  for,  singly,  they  dared  not  cope  with  her  ;  —  spirited,  sud- 
den,  and  violent,' she  had  made  herself  feared,  as  well  as  disliked. 
Once  a  band  of  them  had  united  in  a  plan  to  tease  and  vex  her; 
but  Nan  Grant,  coming  up  at  the  moment  when  one  of  the  gu'ls 
was  throwing  the  s'loes,  which  she  had  pulled  from  Gerty's  feet, 
mto  the  dock,  had  given  the  girl  a  sound  whipping,  and  put  them 
all  to  flight.    Gerty  had  not  had  a  pair  of  shoes  sitice ;  but  Nan 
Grant,  for  once,  had  done  her  good  service,  and  the  children  now 
left  her  in  peace. 

It  was  a  sunshiny,  though  a  cold  day,  when  Gerty  ran  away 
from  the  house,  to  seek  shelter  in  the  wood-yard.  There  was  an 
immense  pile  of  timber  in  one  corner  of  the  yard,  almost  out  of 
sight  of  any  of  the  houses.  Of  different  lengths  and  unevenly 
pfaced,  the  planks  formed,  on  one  side,  a  series  of  irregular  steps, 
by  means  of  which  it  was  easy  to  climb  up.  Near  the  top  was  a 
little  sheltered  recess,  overhung  by  some  long  planks,  and  forming 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


11 


a  miniature  shed,  protected  by  the  wood  on  all  sides  but  one,  at.d 
from  that  looking  out  upon  the  water. 

This  was  Gerty's  haven  of  rest,  her  sanctum,  and  the  only  place 
from  which  she  never  was  driven  away.  Here,  through  the  long 
summer  days,  the  little,  lonesome  child  sat,  brooding  over  her  griefs, 
her  wrongs,  and  her  ugliness ;  sometimes  weeping  for  hours.  Now 
and  then,  when  the  course  of  her  life  had  been  smooth  for  a  few 
days  (that  is,  when  she  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  offend  no  one, 
and  had  escaped  whipping,  or  being  shut  up  in  the  dark),  she 
would  get  a  little  more  cheerful,  and  enjoy  watching  the  sailors 
belonging  to  a  schooner  hard  by,  as  they  labored  on  board  their 
vessel,  or  occasionally  rowed  to  and  fro  in  a  little  boat.  The  warm 
sunshine  was  so  pleasant,  and  the  men's  voices  at  their  work  sa 
lively,  that  the  poor  little  thing  would  for  a  time  forget  her  woes. 

But  summer  had  gone  ^  the  schooner^  and  the  sailors  who  had 
been  such  pleasant  company,  had  gone  too.  The  weather  was  now 
cold,  and  for  a  few  days  it  had  been  so  stormy  that  Gerty  had 
been  obliged  to  stay  in  the  house.  Now,  however,  she  made  the 
best  of  her  way  to  her  little  hiding-place  ;  and  to  her  joy,  the  sun- 
shine had  reached  the  spot  before  her,  dried  up  the  boards,  so  that 
they  felt  warm  to  her  bare  feet,  and  was  still  shining  so  bright  and 
pleasant  that  Gerty  forgot  Nan  Grant,  forgot  how  cold  she  had 
been,  and  how  much  she  dreaded  the  long  winter.  Her  thoughts 
rambled  about  some  time,  but,  at  last,  settled  down  upon  the  kind 
look  and  voice  of  the  old  lamplighter ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time 
since  the  promise  was  made,  it  came  into  her  mind  that  he  had 
engaged  to  bring  her  something  the  next  time  he  came.  She  could 
not  believe  he  would  remember  it ;  but  still,  he  might,  he  seemed 
to  be  so  good-natured,  and  sorry  for  her  fall. 

What  could  he  mean  to  bring?  Would  it  be  something  to  eat? 
0,  if  it  were  only  some  shoes !  But  he  would  n't  think  of  that. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  notice  but  she  had  some. 

At  any  rate,  Gerty  resolved  to  go  for  her  milk  in  season  to  be 
back  before  it  was  time  to  light  the  lamp,  so  that  nothing  should 
prevent  her  seeing  him. 

The  day  seemed  unusually  long,  but  darkness  came  at  last;  and 


12 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


witb  it  came  True  — or,  rather,  Trueman  —  Flinty  for  that  was  the 
lamplighter's  name. 

Gerty  was  on  the  spot,  though  she  took  good  care  to  eluile  Nan 
Grant's  observation. 

True  was  late  about  his  work  that  night,  and  in  a  great  hurry, 
lie  had  only  time  to  spoak  a  few  words  in  his  rough  way  to  Gerty ; 
but  they  were  words  coming  straight  from  as  good  and  honest  a 
heart  as  ever  throbbed.  He  put  his  great,  smutty  hand  on  her 
head  in  the  kindest  way,  told  her  how  sorry  he  was  she  got  hurt, 
and  said,  *'It  was  a  plaguy  shame  she  should  have  been  whipped, 
too,  and  all  for  a  spill  o'  milk,  that  was  a  misfortin',  and  no 
crime." 

But,  here,"  added  he,  diving  into  one  of  his  huge  pockets, 
here 's  the  critter  I  promised  you.  Take  good  care  on 't ;  don't 
'buse  it;  and,  I 'm  guessin',  if  it 's  like  the  mother  that  I  Ve  got 
at  home,  't  won't  be  a  little  ye  '11  be  likin'  it,  'fore  you  're  done. 
Good-by,  my  little  gal;  "  and  he  shouldered  his  ladder  and  went  ofi", 
leaving  in  Gerty 's  bands  a  little  gray- and- white  kitten. 

Gerty  was  so  taken  by  surprisCj  on  finding  in  her  arms  a  live 
kitten,  something  so  different  from  what  she  had  anticipated,  that 
she  stood  for  a  minute  irresolute  what  to  do  with  it.  There  were 
a  great  many  cats,  of  all  sizes  and  colors,  inhabitants  of  the  neigh- 
boring houses  and  yard, — frightened-looking  creatures,  which,  hke 
Gerty  herself,  crept  or  scampered  about,  and  often  hid  themselves 
among  the  wood  and  coal,  seeming  to  feel,  as  she  did,  great  doubts 
about  their  having  a  right  to  be  anywhere.  Gerty  had  often  felt 
a  sympathy  for  them,  but  never  thought  of  trying  to  catch  one, 
carry  it  home,  and  tame  it ;  for  she  knew  that  food  and  shelter 
lyere  most  grudgingly  accorded  to  herself,  and  would  not  certainly 
be  extended  to  her  pets.  Her  first  thought,  therefore,  was  to  throw 
the  kitten  down  and  let  it  run  away. 

But,  while  she  was  hesitating,  the  little  animal  pleaded  for  itself 
in  a  way  she  could  not  resist.  Frightened  by  its  long  imprison* 
ment  and  journey  in  True  Flint's  pocket,  it  crept  from  Gerty's 
arms  up  to  her  neck,  clung  there  tight,  and,  with  its  low,  feeble 
cries,  seemed  to  ask  her  to  take  care  of  it.  Its  eloquence  pre* 
^mhA  ever  all  fear  of  Nan  Grant's  anger.    She  hugged  pussy  to 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


13 


hei  bosom,  and  made  a  ctildish  resolve  to  love  it,  feed  it,  and^ 
above  all,  keep  it  out  of  Nan's  sight. 

How  much  she  came  in  time  to  love  that  kitten,  no  words  can 
tell.  Her  little,  fierce,  untamed,  impetuous  nature  had  hitherto 
only  expressed  itself  in  angry  passion,  sullen  obstinacy,  and  even 
hatred.  But  there  were  in  her  soul  fountains  of  warm  alFect'on 
yot  unstirred,  a  depth  of  tenderness  never  yet  called  out,  and  a 
warmth  and  devotion  of  nature  that  wanted  only  an  object  to 
expend  themselves  upon. 

So  she  poured  out  such  wealth  of  love  on  the  little  creature  that 
clung  to  her  for  its  support  as  only  such  a  desolate  little  heart 
has  to  spare.  She  loved  the  kitten  all  the  more  for  the  care  she 
was  obliged  to  take  of  it,  and  the  trouble  and  anxiety  it  gave  her. 
She  kept  it,  as  much  as  possible,  out  among  the  boards,  in  her  own 
favorite  haunt.  She  found  an  old  hat,  in  which  r.he  placed  her  own 
hood,  to  make  a  bed  for  pussy.  She  carried  it  a  part  of  her  own 
scanty  meals ;  she  braved  for  it  what  she  would  not  have  done 
for  herself;  for  she  almost  every  d?y  abstracted  from  the  kettle, 
when  she  was  returnins:  with  the  milk  for  Nan  Grant,  enou2;h  for 
pussy's  supper,  running  the  risk  of  being  discovered  and  punished, 
the  only  risk  or  harm  the  poor  ignorant  child  knew  or  thought  of, 
in  connection  with  the  theft  and  deception ;  for  her  ideas  of  abstract 
right  and  wrong  were  utterly  undeveloped.  She  would  play 
with  her  kitten  for  hours  among  the  boards,  talk  to  it,  and  tell  it 
how  much  she  loved  it.  But,  when  the  days  were  very  cold,  she 
was  often  puzzled  to  knew  how  to  keep  herself  warm  out  of  doors, 
and  the  risk  of  bringing  the  kitten  into  the  house  was  great.  She 
would  then  hide  it  in  her  bosom,  and  run  with  it  into  the  little 
garret-room  where  she  slept ;  and,  taking  care  to  keep  the  door 
shut,  usually  eluded  Nan's  eyes  and  ears.  Once  or  twice,  when 
she  had  been  off  her  guard,  her  little  playful  pet  had  escaped  from 
her,  and  scampered  through  the  lower  room  and  passage.  OncQ 
Nan  drove  it  out  with  a  broom  ;  but  in  that  thickly- peopled  region, 
as  we  have  said,  cats  and  kittens  were  not  so  uncommon  as  to  ex- 
cite inquiry. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Gerty  had  leisure  to  spend  all  her 
time  at  play.    Most  children  living  among  the  poorer  class  of 
2 


14 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


people  learn  to  be  useful  even  while  they  are  very  young.  Num- 
bers of  little  creatures,  only  a  few  years  old,  may  be  seen  in  ouf 
streets,  about  the  yards  and  doors  of  houses,  bending  under  the 
weight  of  a  large  bundle  of  sticks,  a  basket  of  shavings,  or,  more 
frequently  yet,  a  stout  baby,  nearly  all  the  care  of  which  de- 
volves upon  them.  We  have  often  pitied  such  little  drudges,  and 
thought  their  lot  a  hard  one.  But,  after  all,  it  was  not  the  worst 
thing  in  the  world ;  they  were  far  better  off  than  Gerty,  who  had 
nothing  to  do  at  all,  and  had  never  known  the  satisfaction  of 
helping  anybody.  Nan  Grant  had  no  babies ;  and,  being  a  very 
active  woman,  with  but  a  poor  opinion  of  children's  services,  at  the 
best,  she  never  tried  to  find  employment  for  Gerty,  much  better 
satisfied  if  she  would  only  keep  out  of  her  sight ;  so  that,  except 
her  daily  errand  for  the  milk,  Gerty  was  always  idle,  — -a  fruitful 
source  of  unhappiness  and  discontent,  if  &he  had  suffered  from 
no  other. 

Nan  was  a  Scotchwoman,  no  longer  young,  and  with  a  temper 
which,  never  good,  became  worse  and  worse  as  she  grew  older. 
She  had  seen  life's  roughest  side,  had  always  been  a  hard-working 
woman,  and  had  the  reputation  of  being  very  smart  and  a  driver. 
Her  husband  was  a  carpenter  by  trade ;  but  she  made  his  home 
so  uncomfortable,  that  for  years  he  had  followed  the  sea.  She 
took  in  washing,  and  had  a  few  boarders ;  by  means  of  which  she 
earned  what  might  have  been  an  ample  support  for  herself,  had  it 
not  been  for  her  son,  an  unruly,  disorderly  young  man,  spoilt  in 
early  life  by  his  mother's  uneven  temper  and  management,  and 
who,  though  a  skilful  workman  when  he  chose  to  be  industrious, 
always  squandered  his  own  and  a  large  portion  of  his  mother's  earn- 
ings. Nan,  as  we  have  said,  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  keeping 
Gerty,  though  they  were  not  so  strong  as  to  prevent  her  often  ha^' 
ing  half  a  mini  to  rid  herself  of  the  encumbrance. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Mercy  and  Love  have  met  thee  on  thj  road, 

Thou  wretched  outcast !  AVordswobth. 

When  Gerty  bad  had  her  kitten  about  a  month,  she  took  a 
violent  cold  from  being  out  in  the  damp  and  rain ;  and  Nan, 
fearing  she  should  have  trouble  with  her  if  she  became  seriously 
ill,  bade  her  stay  in  the  house,  and  keep  in  the  warm  room  where 
>she  was  at  work.  Gerty 's  cough  was  fearful ;  and  it  would  have 
been  a  great  comfort  to  sit  by  the  stove  all  day  and  keep  warm, 
had  it  not  been  for  her  anxiety  about  the  kitten,  lest  it  should 
get  lost  or  starve,  before  she  was  well  enough  to  be  out  taking 
care  of  it,  or,  worst  of  all,  come  running  into  the  house  in  search 
of  her.  The  whole  day  passed  away,  however,  and  nothing  was 
seen  of  pussy.  Towards  night,  the  men  were  heard  coming  i.i  to 
suppor.  Just  as  they  entered  the  door  of  the  room  where  Nan 
and  Gerty  were,  and  where  the  coarse  meal  was  prepared,  one  of 
them  stumbled  over  the  kitten,  which  had  come  in  with  them,  un- 
perceived. 

''Cracky!  what's  this 'ere  ?"  said  the  man,  whom  they  all 
were  accustomed  to  call  Jemmy ;  **a  cat,  I  vow  !  Why,  Nan,  I 
thoug'it  you  kind  o'  hated  cats !  " 

Well,  't  an't  none  o'  mine  ;  drive  it  out,"  said  Nan. 

Jommy  started  to  do  so  ;  but  puss,  suddenly  drawing  back,  and 
making  a  circuit  round  his  legs,  sprang  forward  into  the  arms  of 
Gerty,  who  was  anxiously  watching  its  fate. 

"  Whose  kitten's  that,  Gerty?"  said  Nan. 

**Mine  !  "  said  Gerty,  bravely. 

"Well,  how  long  have  you  kept  eats,  I  shoald  like  to  know!*' 
Bald  Nan.    *^  Speak !    How  came  you  by  this  ? "' 


16 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


The  men  were  all  looking  on.  Gerty  was  afraid  of  tTie  men 
They  sometimes  teased,  and  were  always  a  source  of  alarm  ta 
her.  She  could  not  think  of  acknowledging  to  whom  she  wai 
indebted  for  the  gift  of  the  kitten  ;  she  knew  it  \NOuld  only  make 
matters  worse,  for  Nan  had  never  forgiven  True  Fint's  rougli  ex- 
postulation against  her  cruelty  in  beating  the  child  for  spilling  the 
milk ;  and  Gerty  could  not  summon  presence  of  mind  to  think  of  • 
any  other  source  to  which  she  could  ascribe  the  kitten's  piesence, 
or  she  would  not  have  hesitated  to  tell  a  falsehood  ;  for  her  very 
limited  education  had  not  taught  her  a  love  or  habit  of  truth 
where  a  lie  would  better  serve  her  turn,  and  save  her  from  punish- 
ment.   She  was  silent  and  burst  into  tears. 

Come,"  said  Jemmy,    give  us  some  supper,  Nan,  and  let  the 
gal  alone  till  arterwards." 

Nan  complied,  ominously  muttering,  however. 
The  supper  was  just  finished,  when  an  organ-grinder  struck  up 
a  tune  outside  the  door.    The  men  stepped  out  to  join  the  crowd, 
consisting  chiefly  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  who  were  watching 
the  mctioas  of  a  monkey  that  danced  in  time  to  the  music.  Gerty 
ran  to  the  window  to  look  out.    Delighted  with  the  gambols  of 
the  creature,  she  gazed  intently,  until  the  man  and  monkey  moved 
off;  so  intently,  that  she  did  not  miss  the  kitten,  which,  in  the 
mean  time,  crept  down  f^'om  her  arms,  and,  springing  upon  the 
table,  began  to  devour  the  remnants  .of  the  repast.    The  organ* 
grinder  was  not  out  of  sight  when  Gerty's  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure 
of  the  old  lamp^'^hter  coming  up  the  street.    She  thought  she 
would  stay  and  watch  him  light  his  lamp,  when  she  was  startled 
by  a  sharp  and  angry  exclamation  from  Nan,  and  turned  just  in 
time  to  see  her  snatch  her  darling  kitten  from  the  table..  Gerty 
sprang  forw^ard  to  the  rescue,  jumped  into  a  chair,  and  caught  Nan 
by  the  arm ;  but  she  firmly  puslied  her  back  with  one  hand,  while 
with  the  other  she  threw  the  kitten,  half  across  the  room.  Gerty 
heard  a  sudden  splash  and  a  piercing  cry.    Nan  had  flung  the  p  w 
creature  into  a  large  vessel  of  stcaming-hot  water,  wMch  stood 
ready  for  some  household  purpose.    The  little  animal  stru^^led 
and  writhed  an  instant,  then  died  in  torture. 

Ail  the  fury  of  Gerty's  nature  was  roused.    Without  hesita^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


17 


tion,  she  lifted  a  stick  of  wood  which  lay  near  her,  and  flung  it 

at  Nan  with  all  her  strength.  It  was  well  aimed,  and  struck  the 
woman  on  the  head.  The  blood  started  from  the  wound  the  blow 
had  given  ;  but  Nan  hardly  felt  the  blow,  so  greatly  was  she  ex- 
cited against  the  child.  She  sprang  upon  her,  caught  her  by  the 
shoulder,  and,  opening  the  house-door,  thrust  her  out  upon  the 
sidewalk.  **Ye  '11  never  darken  my  doors  again,  yer  imp  of 
wickedness !  "  said  she,  as  -she  rushed  into  the  house,  leaving  the 
child  alone  in  the  cold,  dark  night. 

When  Gerty  was  nngry  or  grieved,  she  always  cried  aloud,  -» 
not  sobbing,  a?  many  children  do,  but  uttering  a  succession  of 
piercing  shrieks?,  pntil  she  sometimes  quite  exhausted  her  strength 
When  she  fou^d  herself  in  the  street,  she  commenced  screaming, 
—  not  from  f<^pr  at  being  turned  away  from  her  only  home,  and 
left  aU  alope  it  nightfall  to  wander  about  the  city,  and,  perhaps, 
fr<5ezp  be^^e  morning  (for  it  was  very  cold) ;  she  did  not  think 
of  h'ir^e^f  for  a  moment.  Horror  and  grief  at  the  dreadful  fate 
of  the  only  thing  she  loved  in  the  world  entirely  filled  her  little 
toviL  So  she  crouched  down  against  the  side  of  the  house,  her 
fa^e  hid  in  her  hands,  unconscious  of  the  noise  she  was  makin^;, 
^nd  unaware  of  the  triumph  of  the  girl  who  had  once  thrown 
way  her  shoes,  and  who  was  watching  her  from  the  house-door 
opposite.  Suddenly  she  found  herself  lifted  up  and  placed  on 
Qne  of  the  rounds  of  Trueman  Flint's  ladder,  which  still  leaned 
against  the  lamp-post.  True  held  her  firmly,  just  high  enough 
on  the  ladder  to  bring  her  face  opposite  his,  recognized  her  as  his 
old  acquaintance,  and  asked  her,  in  the  same  kind  way  he  had  used 
on  the  former  occasion,  what  was  the  matter. 

But  Gerty  could  only  gasp  and  say,  **  0,  my  kitten  !  my  kit- 
ten !  " 

**What!  the  kitten  I  gave  you?  Well,  have  you  lost  it? 
Don't  cry  !  there  —  don't  cry  !  " 

**  O,  no  !  not  lost  !  0,  poor  kitty  !  "  and  Gerty  began  to  cry 
louder  than  ever,  and  coughed  at  the  same  time  so  dreadfully, 
that  True  was  quite  frightened  for  the  child.  Making  every  effort 
\o  soothe  her,  and  having  partially  succeeded,  he  told  her  eh  a 
would  catch  hei  death  o'  cold,  and  she  must  go  into  the  house 
2* 


18 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


0,  she  won't  let  me  in  f  said  Gerty,  and  I  would  n't  go^  if 
Bhe  would ! " 

*^  Who  won't  let  you  in  — your  mother?  '^ 
**No.    Nan  Grant/' 
-Vfho Nan  Grant?'' 

'^She  's  a  horrid,  wicked  woman,  that  drowned  my  kitten  in 
luUn'  water!" 

'* But  where 's  your  mother?  " 
"  I  han't  got  none." 

"  Who  do  you  belong  to,  you  poor  little  thing? '' 
.      Nobody ;  and  I  've  no  business  anywhere  !  " 

But  who  do  you  live  with,  and  who  takes  care  of  you?  " 

**  O,  I  lived  with  Nan  Grant ;  but  I  hate  her.  I  threw  a  stick 
of  wood  at  her  head,  and  I  wish  I 'd  killed  her !  " 

**Hush!  hush!  you  must  n't  say  that!  I  '11  go  and  speak 
to  her." 

True  moved  towards  the  door,  trying  to  draw  Gerty  in  with 
him ;  but  .she  resisted  so  forcibly  that  he  left  her  outside,  and, 
walking  directly  into  the  room  where  Nan  was  binding  up  her 
head  with  an  old  handkerchief,  told  her  she  had  better  call  her 
little-  girl  in,  for  she  would  freeze  to  death  out  there. 

She 's  no  child  of  mine,"  said  Nan  ;  she 's  been  here  long 
enough ;  she 's  the  worst  little  creature  that  ever  lived ;  it 's  a 
wonder  I 've  kept  her  so  long  ;  and  now  I  hope  I  '11  never  lay 
eyes  on  her  agin,  — and  what 's  more,  I  don't  mean  to.  She  ouglit 
to  be  hung  for  breaking  my  head  !  I  believe  she  's  got  an  ill 
spirit  in  her,  if  ever  anybody  did  have  in  this  world  !  " 

**  Bat  what  '11  become  of  her  ?  "  said  True.  **  It 's  a  fearful  cold 
night.  How 'd  you  feel,  marm,  if  she  were  found  to-morrow  morn- 
ing all  friz  up  just  on  your  door-step  ?  " 

**  How 'd  I  feel  ?  That 's  your  business ;  is  it?  S'posen  you 
take  care  on  her  yourself!  Ycr  make  a  mighty  deal  o'  fuss  about 
the  brat.  Carry  her  home,  and  try  how  yer  like  her.  Yer 've 
been  here  a  talkin'  to  me  about  her  once  afore ;  and  I  tell  you  I 
won't  hear  a  word  more.  Let  other  folks  see  to  her,  I  say  ;  I 've 
had  more  'n  my  share ;  and,  as  to  her  freezin'  or  dyin'  anyhow, 
I  '11  risk  her.    Them  children  that  comes  into  the  world  nobody 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


knows  how,  don'fc  go  out  of  it  in  a  hurry.    Sho 's  the  city's  prc^ 
erty  —  let  'em  look  out  for  her;  and  you  M  better  go  long,  and 
not  meddle  with  what  don't  consarn  you." 

True  did  not  wait  to  hear  more.  He  was  not  used  to  women  ; 
and  an  angry  woman  was  the  most  formidable  thing  to  him  in  tho 
«7orid.  Nan's  flashing  eyes  and  menacing  attitude  were  sufficient 
warning  of  the  coming  tempest,  and  he  wisely  hastened  away  be- 
fore it  should  burst  upon  his  head. 

Gerty  had  ceased  crying  when  he  came  out,  and  looked  up  into 
his  face  with  the  greatest  interest. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "  she  says  you  sha'n't  come  back." 
0,  I 'm  so  glad  !  "  said  i&erty. 

**But  where  '11  you  go  to  ?  " 
I  don't  know ;  p'raps  I  '11  go  with  you,  and  see  you  light  the 
lamps." 

But  where  '11  you  sleep  to-night?  " 
**I  don't  know  where;  I  have  n't  got  any  house.    I  guess 
I  '11  sleep  out,  where  I  can  see  the  stars.    I  don't  like  dark  places. 
But  it  '11  be  cold;  won't  it?" 

My  goodness  !    You  '11  freeze  to  death,  child." 
Well,  what  '11  become  of  me  then  ?  " 
"  The  Lord  only  knows  !  " 

True  looked  at  Gerty  in  perfect  wonder  and  distress.  He  knew 
nothing  about  children,  and  was  astonished  at  her  simplicity. 
He  could  not  leave  her  there,  such  a  cold  night ;  but  he  hardlv 
knew  what  he  could  do  with  her  if  he  took  her  home,  for  he  lived 
alone,  and  was  poor.  But  another  violent  coughing  spell  decided 
him  at  once  to  share  with  her  his  shelter,  fire,  and  food,  for  one 
night,  at  least.  So  he  took  her  by  the  hand,  saying,  *'  Come  with 
me ; "  and  Gerty  ran  along  confidently  by  his  side,  never  asking 
whither. 

True  had  about  a  dozen  more  lamps  to  light  before  they 
reached  the  end  of  the  street,  when  his  round  of  duty  was 
finished.  Gerty  watched  him  light  each  one  with  as  keen  an 
interest  as  if  that  were  the  only  object  for  which  she  was  in  his 
company,  and  it  was  only  after -tVey  had  reached  the  corner  of  tho 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


oet,  and  walked  on  for  some  distance  without  stopping,  tliat  shl 
toquircd  wliero  tliey  were  going. 
''Going  home,"  said  True. 
"  Am  I  going  to  your  home  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

Yes,"  said  True,    and  here  it  is." 
He  opened  a  little  gate  close  to  the  sidewalk.    It  led  into  a 
Email  and  very  narrow  yard,  which  stretched  along  the  whole 
leno-th  of  a  decent  two-storied  house.    True  lived  in  the  back 

o 

part  of  the  house ;  so  they  went  through  the  yard,  passed  by 
several  windows  and  the  main  entrance,  and,  keeping  on  to  a 
small  door  in  the  rear,  opened  it  and  went  in.  Gerty  was  by 
this  time  trembling  with  the  cold ;  her  little  bare  feet  were  quite 
blue  with  walking  so  far  on  the  pavements.  There  was  a  stove 
in  the  room  into  which  they  had  entered,  but  no  fire  in  it.  It 
was  a  large  room,  and  looked  as  if  it  might  be  pretty  comfortable, 
though  it  was  very  untidy.  True  made  as  much  haste  as  he 
could  to  dispose  of  his  ladder,  torch,  &c.,  in  an  adjoining  shed, 
and  then  bringing  in  a  handful  of  wood,  he  lit  a  fire  in  tbtj  stove. 
In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  bright  blaze,  and  the  chilly  aunos- 
phere  grew  warm.  Drawing  an  old  wooden  settle  up  to  the  fire, 
he  threw  his  shaggy  great-coat  over  it,  and  lifting  little  Gerty  up, 
he  placed  her  ge^itly  upon  the  comfortable  seat.  He  then  went  to 
work  to  get  supper;  for  True  was  an  old  bachelor,  and  accus- 
tomed to  do  everything  for  himself  He  made  tea  ;  then,  mixing 
a  great  mng  fall  for  Gerty,  with  plenty  of  sugar,  and  air  his 
cent's  worth  of  milk,  he  produced  from  a  little  cupboard  a  loaf 
of  bread,  cut  her  a  huge  slice,  and  pressed  her  to  eat  and  drink 
as  much  as  she  could ;  for  he  judged  well  when  he  concluded, 
from  her  looks,  that  she  had  not  always  been  well  fed  ;  and  so 
much  satisfaction  did  he  feel  in  her  evident  enjoyment  of  the 
best  meal  she  had  ever  had,  that  he  forgot  to  partake  of  it  him- 
self, but  sat  watching  her  with  a  tenderness  which  proved  that 
^he  unerring  instinct  of  childhood  had  not  been  wanting  in  Gerty, 
when  she  felt,  as  she  watched  True  about  his  work,  so  long  before 
he  ever  spoke  to  her,  that  he  was  a  friend  to  everybody,  even  to 
the  most  foilorn  little  girl  in  the  world. 

Trueman  Flint  was  born  and  brought  up  in  New  Hampshire 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


21 


but,  wlien  fifteen  years  old,  being  left  an  orphan,  he  had  made  his 
way  to  Boston,  where  he  supported  himself  for  many  years  hy 
whatever  employment  he  could  obtain;  having  been,  at  dif!I)rcnt 
times,  a  newspaper  carrier,  a  cab-driver,  a  porter,  a  wood-cutter, 
indeed,  a  j ack-at-all- trade s ,  and  so  honest,  capable,  and  good- 
tempered,  had  he  always  shown  himself,  that  he  everywhere  won 
a  good  name,  and  had  sometimes  continued  for  years  in  tbe  same 
employ.  Previous  to  his  entering  upon  the  service  in  which  we 
find  him,  he  had  been  for  some  time  a  porter  in  a  large  store, 
owned  by  a  wealthy  and  generous  merchant.  Being  one  day 
engaged  in  removing  some  heavy  casks,  he  had  tbe  misfortune  to 
be  severely  injured  by  one  of  them  falling  upon  his  chest.  For 
a  long  time  no  hope  was  entertained  of  his  recovering  from  the 
effects  of  the  accident;  and  when  he  at  last  began  to  mend,  bis 
health  returned  so  gradually  that  it  was  a  year  before  he  was 
able  to  be  at  work  again.  This  sickness  swallowed  up  the  savings 
of  years  ;  but  his  late  employer  never  allowed  him  to  want  for 
any  comforts,  provided  an  excellent  physician,  and  saw  that  ho 
was  well  taken  care  of. 

True,  however,  had  never  been  the  same  man  since.  He  rose 
np  from  his  sick  bed  ten  years  older  in  constitution,  and  his 
etrength  so  much  enfeebled  that  he  was  only  fit  for  some  com- 
paratively hght  employment.  It  was  then  that  his  kind  friend 
and  former  master  obtained  for  him  the  situation  he  now  held 
as  lamplighter ;  in  addition  to  which,  he  frequently  earned  con- 
siderable sums  by  sawing  wood,  shovelling  snow,  &c. 

He  was  now  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  old,  a  stoutly-built 
man,  with  features  cut  in  one  of  nature's  rough  moulds,  but 
expressive  of  much  good-nature.  He  was  naturally  silent  and 
reserved,  lived  much  by  himself,  was  known  to  but  few  people 
in  the  city,  and  had  only  one  crony,  the  sexton  of  a  neighbor- 
ing church,  a  very  old  man,  and  one  usually  considered  very  cross- 
grained  and  uncompanionable. 

But  we  left  Gerty  finishing  her  supper ;  and  now,  when  we 
return  to  her,  she  is  stretched  upon  the  wide  settle,  sound  asleep, 
covered  up  with  a  warm  blanket,  and  her  head  resting  upon  a 
pillow.    True  sits  beside  her;   her  little  thin  hand  lies  in  hia 


22 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


great  palm,  —  occasionally  he  draws  the  blanket  closer  round  her. 
She  breathes  hard;  suddenly  she  gives  a  nervous  start,  then 
speaks  quickly  ;  her  dreams  are  evidently  troubled.  True  listens 
intently  to  her  words,  as  she  exclaims,  eagerly,  0,  don't !  don't 
drown  my  kitty !  '*  and  then,  again,  in  a  voice  of  fear,  *'  O,  she  '11 
catch  me  !  she  '11  catch  me  !  "  once  more,  —  and  now  her  tones 
are  touchingly  plaintive  and  earnesi,  —  *' Dear,  dear,  good  old 
man,  let  me  stay  with  you,  do  let  me  stay  !  " 

Great  tears  are  in  Trueman  Flint's  eyes,  and  rolling  down  the 
furrows  of  his  rough  cheeks ;  he  lays  his  great  head  on  the  pillow 
and  draws  Gerty's  little  face  close  to  his;  at  the  same  time 
smoothing  her  long,  uncombed  hair  with  his  hand.  He,  too,  is 
thinking  aloud.    What  does  he  say? 

**  Catch  you  !  no,  she  shan't !  Stay  with  me!  so  you  shall,  I 
promise  you,  poor  little  birdie  !  All  alone  in  this  big  world,  and 
eD  am  I,    Please  God  we  '11  bide  together." 


CHAPTEK  IV. 


In  age,  in  infancy,  from  others'  aid 
Is  all  our  hope ;  to  teach  us  to  be  kind  c 
That  Nature's  first,  last  lesson  to  mankind. 

YouFQ. 

LiTTLiF  Gerty  had  found  a  friend  and  a  protector ;  and  i**  ras  well 
ghe  had,  ("or  suffering  and  neglect  had  well-nigh  cut  short  her  sad 
existenoo  and  ended  all  her  sorrows.  The  morning  after  True 
took  hoT'  home,  she  woke  in  a  high  fever,  her  head  and  limbs 
aching,  and  with  every  symptom  of  severe  illness.  She  looked 
around,  and  found  she  was  alone  in  the  room ;  but  there  was  a 
good  fire,  and  preparation  for  some  breakfast.  For  a  moment  or 
two  she  was  puzzled  to  know  where  she  was,  and  what  had  hap- 
pened to  her ;  for  the  room  seemed  quite  strange,  now  that  sho 
first  saw  it  by  daylight.  A  look  of  happiness  passed  over  her 
little  sick  face  when  she  recalled  the  events  of  the  previous 
night,  and  thought  of  kind  old  True,  and  the  new  home  she  hafl 
found  with  him.  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window  to  look 
out,  though  her  head  was  strangely  giddy,  and  she  tottered  sc 
that  she  could  hardly  walk.  The  ground  was  covered  with  snow, 
and  it  was  still  stormy  without.  It  seemed  as  if  the  snow  daa 
zled  Gerty's  eyes ;  for  she  suddenly  found  herself  quite  blinded, 
her  head  grew  dizzy,  she  staggered  and  fell. 

Trueman  came  in,  a  moment  after,  and  was  very  much  fright- 
ened at  seeing  Gerty  stretched  upon  the  floor,  but  soon  found  on\ 
the  real  state  of  the  case,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  during 
the  night  that  she  was  a  very  sick  child,  and  was  not  surprised 
that  she  had  fainted  in  endeavoring  to  walk.  He  placed  her  ia 
bed,  and  soon  succeeded  in  restoring  her  to  consciousness ;  but, 
for  three  weeks  from  that  time,  she  never  sat  up,  except  when 


24 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


True  held  her  in  his  arms.  True  was  a  rough  and  clumsy  man 
about  most  things;  but  not  so  in  the  care  of  liis  little  charge. 
He  knew  a  good  deal  about  sickness ;  was  something  of  a  doctor 
and  nurse  in  his  simple  way  ;  and,  though  he  had  never  had  much 
to  do  with  children,  his  warm  heart  was  a  trusty  guide,  and 
taught  him  all  that  was  necessary  for  Gerty's  comfort,  and  far, 
far  more  kindness  than  she  had  ever  experienced  before. 

Gerty  was  very  patient.  She  would  sometimes  lie  awake 
whole  nights,  suffering  from  pain  and  extreme  weariness  at  hei 
long  confinement  to  a  sick  bed,  without  uttering  a  groan,  or 
making  any  noise,  lest  she  might  waken  True,  who  slept  on  the 
floor  beside  her,  when  he  could  so  far  forget  his  anxiety  about 
her  as  to  sleep  at  all  Sometimes,  when  she  was  in  great  pain, 
True  had  carried  her  in  his  arms  for  hours ;  but  even  then  Gerty 
would  try  to  appear  relieved  before  she  really  was  so,  and  even 
feign  sleep,  that  he  might  put  her  back  to  bed  again,  and  take 
some  rest  himself.  Her  little  heart  was  full  of  love  and  gratitude 
to  her  kind  protector,  and  she  spent  mucli  of  her  time  in  thinking 
what  she  could  ever  do  for  him  when  she  got  well,  and  wondering 
wliether  she  were  capable  of  ever  learning  to  do  any  good  thing 
at  all.  True  was  often  obliged  to  leave  her,  to  attend  to  hig 
work ;  and,  during  the  first  week  of  her  sickness,  she  was  much 
alone,  though  everything  she  could  possibly  want  was  put  within 
her  reach,  and  many  a  caution  given  to  her  to  keep  still  in  bed 
until  his  return.  At  last,  however,  she  grew  delirious,  and  foi 
some  days  had  no  knowledge  how  she  was  taken  care  of.  One 
day,  after  a  long  and  quiet  sleep,  she  woke  quite  restored  to  sense 
and  consciousness,  and  saw  a  woman  sitting  by  her  bedside  sewing. 

She.  sprang  up  in  bed  to  look  at  the  stranger,  who  had  not 
observed  her  open  her  eyes,  but  who  started  the  moment  she 
heard  her  move,  and  exclaimed,  0,  lie  down,  my  child  !  lie 
down!"  at  the  same  time  laying  her  hand  gently  upon  her,  to 
enforce  the  injunction. 

I  don't  know  you,''  said  Gerty  ;  where's  my  Uncle  True  ?  " 
for  that  was  the  name  by  which  True  had  told  her  to  call  him. 

•*  He's  gone  out,  dear ;  he'll  bo  home  soon.  How  do  you  feel,  — • 
better?" 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


25 


0,  yes !  nracTi  better.    Have  I  been  asleep  long  ?  " 

Some  time  ;  lie  down  now,  and  I  '11  bring  you  some  ^ruel ;  il 
■frill  be  good  for  you." 

**  Does  Uncle  True  know  you  are  here  ?  " 

Yes.    I  came  in  to  sit  witb  you  while  he  was  away." 
*'  Came  in  ?    From  where  ?  " 

**  From  my  room.    I  live  in  the  other  part  of  the  house." 
I  think  you  're  very  good,"  said  Gerty.         like  you.  1 
wonder  why  I  did  not  see  you  when  you  came  in." 

lou  were  too  sick,  dear,  to  notice ;  but  I  think  you  '11  soon 
be  better  now." 

The  woman  prepared  the  gruel,  and  after  Gerty  had  taken  it 
reseated  herself  at  her  work.  Gerty  lay  down  in  bed,  with  her 
face  towards  her  new  friend,  and,  fixing  her  large  eyes  upon  her, 
watched  her  some  time  while  she  sat  sewing.  At  last  the  woman 
looked  up,  and  said,    Well,  what  do  you  think  I 'm  making?  " 

*'  I  don't  know,"  said  Gerty  ;     what  are  you  ?  " 

The  woman  held  up  her  work,  so  that  Gerty  could  see  that  it 
was  a  dark  calico  frock  for  a  child. 

0,  what  a  nice  gown  !  "  said  Gerty.      Who  is  it  for,  — your  lit- 
tle girl?" 

No,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  have  n't  got  any  little  girl;  I 've 
only  got  one  child,  my  boy,  Willie." 

Willie;  that 's  a  pretty  name,"  said  Gerty.    '*Is  he  a  good 
-  boy?" 

**Good?  He  's  the  best  boy  in  the  world,  and  the  hand- 
somest !  "  answered  the  woman,  her  pale,  careworn  face  lit  up  with 
all  a  mother's  pride. 

Gerty  turned  away,  and  a  look  so  unnaturally  sad  for  a  child 
came  over  her  countenance,  that  the  woman,  looking  up,  thought 
she  was  getting  tired,  and  ought  to  be  kept  very  quiet.  She  told 
her  so,  and  bade  her  shut  up  her  eyes  and  go  to  sleep  again. 
Gerty  obeyed  the  first  injunction  and  lay  so  still  that  the  latter 
seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be  fulfilled,  when  the  door  opened  gently, 
and  True  came  in. 

O  !  Miss  Sullivan,"  said  he,    you  're  here  still !    I 'm  verj 


26 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


mucTi  obleeged  to  you  for  stayin  ;  I  had  n't  calkerlatcd  to  be 
gone  so  long.    And  how  does  the  child  seem  to  be,  rnarm  ? '' 

*'Much  better,  Mr.  Flint,  She  's  coaie  to  her  reason,  and  I 
think,  with  care,  will  do  very  well  now.  0  1  she 's  awake,"  she 
added,  seeing  Gerty  open  her  eyes. 

True  came  up  to  the  bedside,  stroked  back  her  hair,  now  cut 
short  and  neatly  arranged,  felt  of  her  pulse,  and  nodded  his  head 
satisfactorily.  Gerty  caught  his  great  hand  between  both  of  hers, 
and  held  it  tight.  He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and, 
glancing  at  Mrs.  Sullivan's  work,  said,  *a  should  n't  be  surprised 
if  she  needed  her  new  clothes  sooner  than  we  thought  for,  marm. 
It 's  my  'pinion  we  '11  have  her  up  and  about  afore  many  days.'' 

So  I  was  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan ;  "  but  don't  be  in  too 
great  a  hurry.  She 's  had  a  very  severe  sickness,  and  her  recov- 
ery must  be  gradual.    Did  you  see  Miss  Graham  to-day  ?  " 

''Yes,  I  did  see  her,  poor  thing!  The  Lord  bless  her  sweet 
face  !  She  axed  a  sight  o'  questions  about  little  Gerty  here,  and 
gave  me  this  parcel  of  arrer  root,  I  think  she  called  it.  She  says 
it 's  excellent  in  sickness.  Did  you  ever  fix  any,  Miss  Sullivan, 
so  that  you  can  jist  show  me  how,  if  you  '11  be  so  good?  for  I  de- 
clare I  don't  remember,  though  she  took  a  deal  o'  pains  to  tell  me." 

0,  yes ;  it 's  very  easy.  I  '11  come  in  and  prepare  some,  by 
and  by.  I  don't  think  Gerty  '11  want  any  at  present;  she 's  just 
had  some  gruel.  But  father  has  come  home,  and  I  must  be  see- 
ing about  our  tea.    I  '11  come  in  again,  this  evening,  Mr.  Flint." 

*'  Thank  you,  marm,  thank  you ;  you  're  very  kind." 

During  the  few  following  days  Mrs.  Sullivan  came  in  and  sut 
with  Gerty  several  times.  She  was  a  gentle,  subdued  sort  of 
woman,  with  a  placid  face,  that  was  very  refreshing  to  a  child 
that  had  long  lived  in  fear,  and  suffered  a  great  deal  of  abuse. 
She  always  brought  her  work  with  her,  which  was  usually  some 
child's  garment  that  she  was  making. 

One  evening,  when  Gerty  had  nearly  recovered  from  her  tedious 
fever,  she  was  sitting  in  True's  lap  by  the  stove  fire,  carefully 
wrapped  up  in  a  blanket.  She  had  been  talking  to  him  about  hei 
uew  ac(iuaintance  and  friend ;  suddenly  looking  up  in  his  face. 


THE  LAMPLTGHTER. 


27 


elic  siiiil,  ''TJnck  True,  do  you  know  what  little  girl  she's  making 
a  gown  for?  " 

**For  a  little  girl,"  said  True,  **  that  needs  a  gown,  and  a  good 
many  other  things ;  fjr  she  has  n't  got  any  clothes,  as  I  know  on, 
except  a  few  old  rags.    Do  ycu  know  any  such  little  girl,  Grerty  ?  " 

'*  I  guess  I  do,"  said  Gerty,  with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
and  a  very  knowing  look. 

**  Well,  where  is  she  ?  " 

**  An't  she  in  your  lap?  " 

**  What,  you  !  — -  Why,  do  you  think  Mrs.  Sullivan  would  spend 
her  time  making  clothes  for  you  V 

Well,"  said  Gerty,  hanging  her  head,  I  should  n't  think  she 
would ;  but  then  you  said —  " 

''Well,  what  did  I  say?" 

'*  Something  about  new  clothes  for  me." 
So  I  did,"  said  True,  giving  her  a  rough  hug ;    and  they  are  for 
you  ;  —  two  whole  suits,  and  shoes  and  stockings  into  the  bargain." 

Gerty  opened  her  large  eyes  m  amazement,  laughed  and  clapped 
her  hands.    True  laughed  too  ;  they  both  seemed  very  happy. 

'*Did  she  buy  them,  Uncle  True?    Is  she  rich?  "  said  Gerty. 
Miss  Sullivan? — no,  indeed  I  "  said  True.    ''Miss  Graham 
bought  'em,  and  is  going  to  pay  Miss  Sullivan  for  making  them." 

*'  Who  is  Miss  Graham  1  " 
She^s  a  lady  too  good  for  this  world  —  that's  sartain.    I'll  tell 
you  about  her,  some  time  ;  but  I  better  not  now,  I  guess ;  it's  time 
you  were  abed  and  asleep." 

One  Sabbath,  after  Gerty  was  nearly  well,  she  was  so  much 
fatigued  with  sitting  up  all  day,  that  she  went  to  bed  before  dark, 
and  for  two  or  three  hours  slept  very  soundly.  .  On  awaking,  she 
saw  that  True  had  company.  An  old  man,  much  older,  she 
thought,  than  True,  was  sitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stove, 
smoking  a  pipe.  His  dress,  though  of  ancient  fashion,  and  homely 
in  its  materials,  was  very  neat;  and  his  hair,  of  which  he  had  but 
little,  and  that  perfectly  white,  growing  in  two  long  locks,  just  be» 
hind  his  ears,  was  nicely  combed  up,  and  tied  on  the  top  of  hia 
head,  which  was  elsewhere  bald  and  shiny.  He  had  sharp  feat- 
ures, and  Gerty  thought,  from  his  looks,  it  must  be  easy  for  him 


28  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

to  say  sharp  things;  indeed,  rnthcr  hard  for  him  to  say  anything 
pleasant.    Tliore  w:is  a  sarcastic  cxpr::::sioii  about  tho  corners  of 
b.is  month,  and  a  disappointed  look  in  his  whole  face,  which  Gerty 
observed,  though  she  could  not  have  dedrLcd,  and  from  Vvhich  she 
drew  her  conclusions  with  regard  to  his  temper.    She  rightly  con- 
jectured  that  he  was  Mrs.  Sullivan's  father,  Mr.  Cooper ;  and  in 
5he  opinion  she  formed  of  him  from  her  first  observation  she  d':d 
not  widely  difFor  from  most  other  pGople  who  knew  the  old  church- 
bexton.    But  both  his  own  face  and  public  opinion  somewhat 
wronged  him.    It  was  true  his  was  not  a  genial  nature.  Domes- 
tic  trials,  and  the  unkindness  and  fickleness  of  fortune,  had  caused 
him  to  look  upon  the  dark  side  of  life,  —  to  dwell  upon  its  sorrows, 
and  frown  upon  the  bright  hopes  of  the  young  and  the  gay,  who, 
as  he  was  wont  to  say,  with  a  mysterious  shake  of  his  head,  knew 
but  little  of  the  world.    The  occupation,  too,  which  had  of  la^e 
years  been  his,  was  not  calculated  to  counteract  a  disposition  to 
melancholy ;  his  duties  in  the  church  were  mostly  solitary,  and, 
as  he  was  much  withdrawn  in  his  old  age  fi'om  intercourse  with 
the  world  at  large,  he  had  become  severe  towards  its  follies,  and 
unforgiving  tow^'ards  its  crimes.    There  was  much  that  was  good 
and  benevolent  in  him,  however ;  and  True  Flint  knew  it,  and  loved 
to  draw  it  out.    True  liked  the  old  man's  sincerity  and  honesty ; 
and  many  a  Sabbath  evening  had  they  sat  by  that  same  fireside, 
and  discussed  all  those  questions  of  public  policy,  national  institi.. 
tions,  and  individual  rights,  which  every  American  tcels  called 
upon  to  take  under  his  especial  coLsideration,  beside  many  mat/ 
ters  of  private  feeling  and  interest,  without  their  friendly  rela- 
ticns  being  once  disturbed  or  endangered ;  and  this  was  the  more 
remarkable,  inasmuch  as  Trueman  Flint  was  the  very  rev^^rse  of 
okl  Paul  Cooper  in  disposition  and  temper,  being  hopeful  and 
sanguine,  always  disposed  to  look  upon  the  bright  side  of  things, 
and"^  however  discouraging  they  might  seem,  ever  averring  that  it 
war'his  opinion 't  would  all  come  out  right  at  last.    On  the  even- 
ing  of  which  we  are  speaking,  they  had  been  talking  on  several 
'of  their  usual  topics;  but  when  Gerty  awoke,  'she  found  herself 
the  subject  of  conversation.    Of  course  she  soon  became  decplj 
interested. 


T£iE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


29 


*'  Where/'  said  Mr  Cooper,    did  you  say  you  picked  lior  up?  " 

''At  Nan  Grant's,'-'  said  True.  Don't  you  remember  her? 
She's  the  same  woman  whose  son  you  AYcre  called  up  to  wit- 
ness against,  at  the  time  the  church-windows  were  broken,  the 
night  afore  the  4th  of  July.  You  can't  have  forgotten  her  at  the 
trial,  Cooper  ;  for  she  blew  you  up  with  a  vengeance,  and  did  n't  spare 
his  honor  the  J-adge,  either.  Well,  't  was  just  such  a  rage  she 
was  in  with  this  'ere  child,  the  first  time  I  see  her ;  and  the  second 
time  she'd  just  turned  her  out  o'  doors." 

Ah,  yes,  I  remember  the  she-bear.  I  should  n't  suppose  she'd 
be  any  too  gentle  to  her  own  child,  much  less  a  ctrangcr's ;  but 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  foundling,  Flint?  " 

"Do  with  her?  — Keep  her,  to  be  sure,  and  take  care  on  her." 

Cooper  laughed  rather  sarcastically. 

**  Well,  now,  I  s'pose,  neighbor,  you  think  it's  rather  freakish  in 
me  to  be  adoptin'  a  child  at  my  time  o'  life ;  and  p'raps  it  is ;  but 
I'll  explain  to  you  just  how 't  was.  She'd  a  died  that  night  I 
tell  ycr  on,  if  I  had  n't  brought  her  home  with  me  ;  and  a  good 
many  times  since,  what's  more,  if  I,  with  the  help  o'  your  darter, 
had  n't  took  mighty  good  care  on  her.  Well,  she  took  on  so  in 
her  sleep,  the  first  night  ever  she  came,  and  cried  out  to  me  all  as 
if  she  never  had  a  friend  afore  (and  I  doubt  me  she  never  had), 
that  I  made  up  my  mind  then  she  should  stay,  at  any  rate,  and 
I'd  take  care  on  her,  and  share  my  last  crust  with  the  wee  thing, 
come  what  might.  The  Lord  's  been  very  marciful  to  me,  Mr, 
Cooper,  very  marc'ful.  He's  raised  me  up  friends  in  my  deep 
distress,  I  knew,  when  I  was  a  little  shaver,  what  a  lonesome 
thing  it  was  to  be  fatherless  and  motherless  ;  and  when  I  sec  this 
little  sufFcifm'  human  bein',  I  felt  as  if,  all  friendless  as  she  seemed, 
she  was  more  partickerlerly  the  Lord's,  and  as  if  I  could  not  sarvo 
him  more,  and  ought  not  to  sarve  him  less,  than  to  share  with 
her  the  blessin's  he  has  bestowed  on  mo.  You  look  round,  neigh^ 
bor,  as  if  you  thought  't  wan't  much  to  share  with  any  one ;  and 
't  an  t  much  there  is  here,  to  bo  sure  ;  but  it's  a  hoTne  —  yes,  a  kome  ; 
and  that's  a  greao  thing  to  her  that  never  had  one.  I've  got  my 
\iands  yet,  and  a  stout  heart,  and  a  wiliin'  mind.  With  God'j 
3* 


go  THE  LAMPLT^IUTER. 

help,  1^11  bo  a  father  to  that  cliild ;  and  tlio  time  may  como  wlieu 
elie'li  be  God's  embodied  blessin'  to  me/' 

Mr.  Cooper  shook  bis  bead  doubtfaily,  and  muttered  sometbing 
about  children,  even  one's  own,  not  being  apt  to  prove  blessings. 

But  be  bad  not  power  to  shake  Trueman's  high  faith  in  the 
wisdom,  as  well  as  righteousness,  of  his  own  proceedings.  Ho 
had  risen  in  the  earnestness  with  which  ho  had  spoken,  and,  after 
pacing  the  room  hastily  and  with  excitement,  he  returned  to  his 
seat/and  said,     Besides,  neighbor  Cooper,  if  I  had  not  made 
up  my  mind  the  night  Gerty  came  here,  I  would  n't  have  sent  her 
away  after  the  next  day;  for  the  Lord.  I  think,  spoke  to  me  by 
the  mouth  of  one  of  his  holy  angels,  and  bade  me  persevere  in 
my  resolution.    You've  seen  Miss  Graham,    ^he  goes  to  your 
church  regular,  with  the  fine  old  gentleman,  her  father.    I  was 
at  their  house  shovelling  snow,  after  the  great  storm  three  weeks 
since,  and  she  sent  for  me  to  come  into  the  kitchen.    Well  may 
I  bless  her  angel  face,  poor  thing  1  —  if  the  world  is  dark  to  her, 
she  makes  it  light  to  other  folks.    She  cannot  see  Heaven's  sun- 
shine outside  ;  but  she's  better  off  than  most  people,  for  she's  got 
it  in  her,  I  do  believe,  and  when  she  smiles  it  lets  the  glory  out, 
and  looks  like  God's  rainbow  in  the  clouds.    She's  done  me  many 
a  kindness,  since  I  got  hurt  so  bad  in  her  father's  store,  now  some 
five  years  gone  ;  and  she  sent  for  me  that  day,  to  ask  how  I  did, 
and  if  there  was  anything  I  wanted  that  she  could  speak  to  the 
master  about.    So  I  told  her  all  about  little  Gerty ;  and,  I  tell  you, 
she  and  I  both  cried  'fore  I'd  done.    She  put  some  money  into 
my  hand,  and  told  me  to  get  Miss  Sulhvan  to  make  some  clothes 
for  Gerty ;  more  than  that,  she  promised  to  help  me  if  I  got  into 
trouble  with  the  care  of  her ;  and  when  I  was  going  away,  she 
said,  *  I'm  sure  you've  done  quite  right,  True ;  the  Lord  will 
bless  and  reward  your  kindii^^ss  to  that  poor  child.'  " 

True  was  so  excited  and  animated  by  his  subject,  that  he  did 
not  notice  what  the  sexton  bad  observed,  but  did  not  choose  to 
interrupt.  Gerty  had  risen  from  her  bed  and  was  standing  be- 
side True,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  breathless  with  the  interest 
she  felt  in  his  words.  She  touched  his  shculder;  he  locked 
round,  saw  her,  and  stretdied  out  his  arms.    She  sprang  into 


THE  LAMPLIGHTKR. 


31 


therji,  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and,  bursting  into  a  paroxysm 
of  joyful  tears,  gasped  out  the  words,  Shall  I  stay  with  you 
always?" 

"Yes,  just  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  True,  '*you  shall  be  my 
cliild>" 


CHAPTER  V. 


A  liglit,  busy  foot  astir 
In  lier  small  llousc^YifclT ;  tlic  lilitliest  bee 
That  ever  m'ouglit  in  liivc. 

MlLEORD.  " 

It  was  a  stormy  evening.  Gerty  was  standing  at  the  window, 
watcbing  for  True's  return  from  h\s  lampligliting.  She  was  neat  j 
and  comfortably  dressed,  ber  hair  smooth,  her  face  and  hands 
clean.  She  was  now  quite  well->)etter  than  for  years  bc.ore 
her  sickness.  Care  and  kindness  bad  done  wonders  for  ber,  and 
tbou.rb  still  a  pale  and  rather  slender-looklng  child,  with  eycs  and 
Tnouth  disproportionately  large  to  ber  other  features,  the  pamful 
look  of  suffering  she  had  been  wont  to  wear  bad  given  place  o  a 
happy  though  rather  grave  expressioa.  On  the  wide  window- 
sill  in  front  of  ber,  sat  a  plump  anA  venerable  cat,  parent  to 
Gerty's  lost  darling,  and  for  that  reanon  very  dear  to  ber;  she 
was  quietly  stroking  its  back,  while  tU  constant  purring  that  the 
«ld  veteran  kept  up,  proved  her  satisfaction  at  the  arrangement. 

Suddenly  a  rumbling,  tumbling  sound  was  beard  in  the  wall. 
The  house  was  old,  and  furnished  with  ample  accommodations 
for  rats,  who  seemed,  from  the  noise,  to  Narve  availed  themselves 
of  this  fact  to  give  a  ball,  such  an  exciten.ent  were  they  man.- 
fcstln-  One  would  almost  have  thought  a  chimney  was  fallmg 
downrbrick  by  brick.  It  did  not  alarm  Ger^N,  however ;  she  was 
used  to  eld,  rat-inhabited  walls,  and  too  much  accustomed  to  hear- 
in-,  such  sounds  all  around  her,  when  she  slefi  rn  the  garret  at 
Nan  Grant's,  to  be  disturbed  by  them.  Not  a  ,  however,  wUh 
the  ancient  grimalkin,  who  pricked  up  her  ears,  and  pav.  .vp^^ 
Bi.n  of  a  dispositioa  to  rush  into  battle.    No  w^-Ws. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEE. 


33 


havo  bec3n  moro  excited  by  tlio  sound  of  tlio  trumpet,  than 
was  puss  at  the  rushing  of  her  foes  through  the  celling. 

*'LiG  still,  pussy,"  said  Gerty,  '*  lio  still,  I  say  ;  don't  you  bo 
running  off  after  rats.  You  must  sit  up  straight,  and  be  good, 
till  you  seo  Uncle  True  coming,  so's  to  hear  wdiat  he'll  say  ^yhen 
ho  sees  the  room  and  me.^^ 

Here  Gerty  turned  and  glanced  around  the  room  with  an  air 
jx  infinite  satisfaction  ;  then,  clambering  upon  the  wide,  old-fash- 
ioned windo\7-silI,  where  she  could  see  up  the  yard,  and  have  a 
full  view  of  the  lamplighter  the  moment  he  entered  the  gate, 
she  took  the  cat  in  her  arms,  smoothed  down  her  dress,  gave  a 
look  of  interest  and  pride  at  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  then 
composed  herself,  with  a  determined  effort  to  be  patient.  Ic 
would  not  do,  however  ;  she  could  not  be  patient ;  it  seemed  to 
her  that  he  never  came  so  late  before,  and  she  was  just  beginning 
/:o  think  he  never  would  come  at  all,  when  he  turned  into  the  gate. 
It  was  nearly  dark,  but  Gerty  could  see  that  there  was  some  per- 
son with  him.  He  did  not  look  tall  enough  to  be  Mr.  Cooper, 
and  did  not  step  like  him  ;  but  she  concluded  it  must  bo  he,  for 
v/hoever  it  was  stopped  at  his  door  further  up  the  yard,  and  went 
in.  Impatient  as  Gerty  had  been  for  True's  arrival,  she  did  not 
lun  to  meet  him  as  usual,  but  waited  in  a  listening  attitude,  until 
ghe  heard  him  come  in  through  the  shed,  where  ho  was  in  the 
habit  of  stopping  to  hang  up  his  ladder  and  lantern,  and  remove 
the  soded  frock  and  overalls  which  he  wore  outside  his  clothes 
when  about  his  work.  She  then  ran  and  hid  behind  the  door  by 
which  ho  must  enter  the  room.  She  evidently  had  some  great 
surprise  in  store  for  him,  and  meant  to  enjoy  it  to  the  utmost. 
The  cat,  not  being  so  full  of  the  matter,  whatever  it  was,  was 
more  mindful  of  her  manners,  and  went  to  meet  him,  rubbing  her 
head  against  his  legs,  which  was  her  customary  welcome. 

Hollo,  whiskers  !     said  True  ;     where's  my  little  gal?  " 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him  as  he  spoke,  thus  disclosing  Crerty 
to  view.  She  sprang  forward  with  a  bound,  laughed,  and  looked 
Lrst  at  her  own  clothes,  and  then  in  Trucks  face,  to  see  what  lia 
would  think  of  her  appearance. 

Well,  I  declare !  "  said  he,  lifting  her  up  in  his  arms  and 


THE  LAMrLIGKTER. 


carryin'^  lior  nonrer  to  tlie  li^'at ;  "little  folks  do  look  famous! 
New  gown,  apron,  shoes !  -  got  'em  all  on  !  And  who  fixed  jouf 
Imii--?    r^Iy,  you  an't  none  too  hanasomo,  sartam,  bat  you  do  look 

famous  n:co !  "  i       i  •  i 

"Ih:}.  Sullivan  drossad  me  all  up,  and  brushed  my  liair ;  and 

too  —  don't  you  see  what  else  she  has  done  ?  " 
True  followed  Gerty's  eyes  as  they  wandered  around  the  room. 
He  looked  amazed  enough  to  satisfy  her  antieipations,  great  as 
they  had  been  ;  and  no  wonder.  He  had  been  gone  since  morning, 
and  things  bad  indeed  undergone  a  transformation.  Woman  a 
nands  had  evidently  been  at  work,  clearing  up  and  setting  to 
rights. 

Until  Gerty  came  to  live  with  True,  bis  borne  bad  never  been 
subjected  to  female  intrusion.  Living  wholly  by  himself,  and  en- 
tertaining scarcely  any  visitors,  it  had  been  ,  his  habit  to  make 
himself  comfortable  in  bis  own  way,  utterly  regardless  of  appear- 
ances.  In  his  bumble  apartment  sweeping-day  came  but  seldom, 
and  spring  cleaning  was  unknown.  Two  largo  windows,  f:-.cing 
the  yard,  were  treated  with  great  injustice,  the  cheerful  light  they 
were  capable  of  afFording  being  half  obscured  by  dirt  and  smoke. 
The  corners  of  the  ceiling  were  festooned  with  cobwebs;  the  high, 
broad  mantle-piece  bad  accumulated  a  curious  medley  of  thinga 
useful  and  useless ;  while  there  was  no  end  to  the  rubbish  that  had 
collected  under  the  stove.  Then  the  furniture,  some  of  which 
was  very  good,  was  adjusted  in  the  most  inconvenient  manner, 
and  in  a  way  to  turn  the  size  of  the  room  to  the  least  possible  ad- 
vantage. During  Gerty's  illness,  a  bed  made  up  on  the  floor  for 
True's  use,  and  the  various  articles  which  bad  been  required  in 
her  sick-room,  bad  increased  the  clutter  to  such  an  extent  that 
one  almost  needed  a  pilot  to  conduct  him  in  safety  through  the 
apartment. 

Now,  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  the  soul  of  neatness.  Ilei  rooms  were 
like  wax-work.  Her  own  dress  was  almost  qua'iicr-like  in  its  extreme 
simplicity,  and  freedom  from  the  least  speck  or  stain.  No  one  could 
meet  her  old  father,  or  her  young  son,  even  in  their  working  dress 
without  perceiving  at  once  the  evidence  of  a  careful  daughter  and 
mother's  handiwork.  It  was  to  nurse  Gerty,  and  take  care  of  her  lu 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  35 

Truo's  absence,  tliat  she  first  entered  a  room  so  mucli  tlie  reverse  of 
her  own  ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  appreciate  the  degree  in  which  the 
virtue  and  charity  of  her  so  doing  was  enhanced,  unless  one  can 
realize  how  painful  the  contrast  was  to  her,  and  how  excessively 
annoying  sfie  found  it,  to  spend  sometimes  a  whole  afternoon  in  a 
room,  which,  as  she  expressed  herself  afterwards  at  home,  it  would 
have  been  a  real  pleasure  to  her  to  clear  up  and  put  to  rights,  if 
it  were  only  to  see  how  it  would  look,  and  whether  anybody 
would  recognize  it.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  a  little  bit  of  a  woman, 
but  had  more  capability  and  energy  than  could  have  been  found  in 
any  one  among  twenty  others  twice  her  size.  She  really  pitied 
those  whose  home  was  such  a  mass  of  confusion ;  felt  sure  that 
they  could  not  be  happy  ;  and  inwardly  determined,  as  soon  as 
Gerty  got  well,  to  exert  herself  in  the  cause  of  cleanliness  and 
order,  which  was  in  her  eyes  the  cause  of  virtue  and  happiness,  so 
completely  did  she  identify  outward  neatness  and  purity  with 
inward  peace.  She  pondered  in  her  own  mind  how  she  could 
broach  the  subject  of  a  renovation  in  his  affiirs  to  True  himself, 
without  wounding  his  feelings ;  for  she  was  herself  so  sensitive  on 
a  point  of  neatness,  that  she  imagined  he  must  be  somewhat  the 

g^jne,  and  the  little  woman,  being  as  tender-hearted  as  she  was 

tidy,  would  not  have  mortified  him  for  the  world,  —  when  a  mode 
of  action  was  suggested  to  her  by  Gerty  herself. 

On  the  day  previous  to  that  on  which  the  great  cleaning  opera- 
tions took  place,  Gerty  was  observed  by  Mrs.  Sullivan  standing  iu 
the  passage  near  her  door,  and  looking  shyly  but  wistfully  in. 

**  Come  in,  Gerty,"  said  the  kind  little  woman  ;  *'  come  in  and 
see  me.  Here,"  added  she,  seeing  how  timid  the  child  felt  about 
intruding  herself  into  a  strange  room  ;  you  may  sit  up  here  by 
the  table,  and  see  me  iron.  This  is  your  own  little  dress.  I  am 
smoothing  it  out,  and  then  your  things  will  all  be  done.  You'll 
be  glad  of  some  new  clothes,  shan't  you  ?  " 

Very  glad,  marm,"  said  Gerty.  Am  I  to  take  them  away, 
and  keep  them  all  myself?  " 

Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

I  don't  know  where  I'll  put  'em  all ;  there  an't  no  nice  place  m 
our  room,  —  at  least,  no  very  nice  place,"  said  Gerty,  glancing 


86 


THE  LAMPLIGUTEK. 


with  admiration  at  the  open  drawer,  in  which  Mrs.  Sullivan  was 
now  placing  the  little  dress,  adding  it  to  a  pile  ot*  neatly-folded 
garments. 

Why,  part  of  them,  you  know,  you'll  be  wearing,"  said  Mrs. 
Sullivan  ;  "  and  wc  must  find  some  good  place  for  the  rest." 

You've  got  good  places  for  things,"  said  Gerty,  looking  round 
the  room  ;     this  is  a  beautiful  room,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

**Why,  it  is  n't  very  different  from  Mr.  Flint's.  It's  just 
about  the  same  size,  and  two  front  windows  like  his.  My  cup- 
board is  the  best ;  yours  is  only  a  three-cornered  one  ;  but  that's 
about  all  the  difference." 

0,  but  then  yours  don't  look  one  bit  like  ours.  You  have  n't 
got  any  bed  here,  and  all  the  chairs  stand  in  a  row,  and  the  table 
shines,  and  the  floor  is  so  clean,  and .  the  stove  is  new,  and  the  sun 
comes  in  so  bright  !  0  !  I  wish  our  room  was  like  this  !  I 
should  n't  think  ours  was  more  than  half  as  big,  either.  Why, 
Uncle  True  stumbled  over  the  tongs,  this  morning,  and  he  said 
there  was  n't  room  there  to  swing  a  cat." 

W^here  were  the  tongs?"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 
About  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  marm." 
Well,  you  see  I  don't  keep  things  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
I  think,  if  ycur  room  were  all  cleaned  up,  and  places  found  for 
everything,  it  would  look  almost  as  well  as  mine." 

*'Iwish  it  could  be  fixed  up  nice,"  said  Gerty;  **but  what 
could  be  done  with  those  beds  ?  " 

I  've  been  thinking  about  that.  There's  that  little  pantry,  — 
or  bathing-room,  I  think  it  must  have  been  once,  when  this  house 
was  new,  and  rich  people  lived  in  it ;  that's  large  enough  to  hold  a 
small  bedstead  and  a  chair  or  two  ;  't  would  be  quite  a  comfortable 
little  chamber  for  you.  There's  nothing  in  it  but  rubbish,  that 
might  just  as  well  be  thrown  away,  or,  if  it  were  good  for  anything, 
put  in  the  shed." 

0,  that  'll  be  nice  !  "  said  Gerty  ;  then  Uncle  True  can  have 
his  bed  back  again,  and  I  '11  sleep  on  the  floor  in  there." 

''No,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan;  "  it  won't  be  necessary  for  you  to 
Bleep  on  the  floor.  I've  got  a  very  good  little  cross-legged  bed- 
cfA^d  that  my  Willie  slept  on  when  he  lived  at  home  ;  and  [  will 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


87 


;5end  it  to  you,  if  you  '11  try  to  take  good  care  of  it,  and  of  every 
thing  else  that  is  put  into  your  room." 

"0,1  will,"  said  Gerty.  —  "  But  can  I  ?  "  added  she,  hesitating 
"  do  you  think  I  can  ?    I  don't  know  hoAv  to  do  anything." 

*•  You  never  have  been  taught  to  do  anything,  my  child ;  but  a 
girl  eight  years  old  can  do  a  great  many  things,  if  she  is  patient 
and  tries  hard  to  learn.  I  could  teach  you  to  do  a  great  deal  that 
would  be  us-iful,  and  that  would  help  your  Uncle  True  voiy 
much." 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  could  sweep  the  room  up  every  day ;  you  could  make  the 
beds,  after  a  fashion,  with  a  little  help  in  turning  them ;  you  could 
set  the  table,  toast  the  bread,  and  wash  the  dishes.  Perhaps  you 
would  not  \o  these  things  in  the  best  manner  at  first ;  but  you 
would  keep  improving,  and  by  and  by  get  to  be  quite  a  nice  little 
house-keeper." 

"  O,  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  Uncle  True !  "  said  Gerty  • 
■*  but  how  could  I  ever  begin  ? " 

"  In  the  first  place,  you  must  have  things  cleaned  up  for  you 
if  I  thought  Mr.  Flint  would  like  it,  I 'd  get  Kate  McCaity  to 
come  in  some  day  and  help  us ;  and  I  think  we  could  make  a  great 
improvement  in  his  home." 

"0,1  know  he'd  like  it,"  said  Gerty;  "'twould  be  grand! 
May  I  help  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  may  do  what  you  can ;  but  Kate  '11  be  the  best  hand 
she 's  strong,  and  knows  how  to  do  cleaning  very  well." 
"  Who 's  she  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"Kate?  —  She 's  Mrs.  McCarty's  daughter,  in  the  next  house. 
Mr.  Flint  does  them  many  a  good  turn,  —  saws  wood,  and  so  on 
They  do  most  of  his  washing;  but  they  can't  half  pay  him  all  the 
khidness  he 's  done  that  family.  Kate  s  a  clever  girl  ;  she  '11  hf^ 
glad  to  come  and  work  for  him,  any  day.    I  '11  ask  her." 

"Will  she  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  will." 

"  Uncle  True 's  going  to  be  gone  all  day  to-morrow,"  s^ud  Gerty  , 
"  he 's  going  to  get  in  Mr.  Eustace's  coal.  Would  n't  it  bo  a  good 
time?" 

4 


gg  THE  LAMPLIGblEK. 

««  Very,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan.    "  I  'U  try  and  gd  Kate  to  cnme 
to-niorrow." 

Kate  came.  The  room  was  thoroughly  cleaned,  and  put  m  com- 
plete  order.  Gerty's  new  clothes  were  delivered  over  to  her  owi. 
keeping ;  she  was  neatly  dressed  in  one  suit,  the  other  placed  in  a 
little  chest  which  was  found  in  the  pantry,  and  which  accommo 
dated  her  small  wardrobe  very  well. 

It  was  the  result  of  all  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  Kate's  and  Gerty's  com- 
bined  labor  which  called  forth  True's  astonishment  on  his  return  from 
his  work ;  and  the  pleasure  he  manifested  made  the  day  a  memor- 
able  one  in  Gerty's  life,  one  to  be  marked  in  her  memory  as  long 
as  she  lived,  as  being  the  first  in  which  she  had  known  tlmt  happi- 
ness  -  perhaps  the  highest  earth  affords  -  of  feeling  that  she  had 
been  instrumental  in  giving  joy  to  another.    Not  that  Gerty's 
assistance  had  been  of  an)  great  value;  or  that  all  could  not  have 
been  done  as  well,  or  even  better,  if  she  had  been  where  Nan 
Grant  always  put  her,  -  out  of  the  way.    But  the  child  did  not 
realize  that:  she  had  been  one  of  the  laborers ;  she  had  entered 
heart  and  soul  into  every  part  of  the  work  ;  wherever  she  had  been 
allowed  to  lend  a  helping  hand,  she  had  exerted  her  whole 
strength.    She  could  say,  with  truth,  "  We  did  it,—  Mrs.  SuUivaa. 
Kate  and  I." 

None  but  a  loving  heart,  like  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  would  have 
understood  and  sympathized  in  the  feeling  which  made  Gerty  so 
ea^er  to  help.  But  slm  did,  and  allotted  to  her  many  little  ser- 
vices, which  the  child  felt  herself  more  blessed  in  being  permitted  to 
perform  than  she  would  have  done  at  almost  any  gift  or  favor  that 
could  have  been  bestowed  upon  her. 

She  led  True  about  to  show  him  how  judiciously  and  ingeniously 
Mrs.  Sullivan  had  contrived  to  make  the  most  of  the  room  and  the 
furniture  ;  how,  by  moving  the  bed  into  a  deep  recess,  which  was 
just  wide  enough  for  it,  she  had  reserved  the  whole  square  area, 
and  made,  as  True  declared,  a  parlor  of  it.  It  was  some  time 
-before  he  could  be  made  to  believe  that  half  his  property  had  not 
been  spirited  away,  so  incomprehensible  was  it  to  Lim  that  so 
much  additional  sp'Ace  and  comfort  could  be  acquired  by  %  little 
ystem  and  order 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


39 


But  tis  astonic'hmenu  and  Clerty's  delight  reached  their  eUmax 
when  she  iniroattced  iiiru  into  i;he  former  lumber-closet,  now  trans- 
Formed  intO  a  really  snui^  and  c(>iiifortable  bed-room. 

"  AVell,  1  declare  !  W  eli,  1  declare !  "  was  all  the  old  man 
could  seem  to  say.  Ke  sat  down  beside  the  stove,  now  polished, 
and  niade,  as  Gcity  declared,  new,  just  like  Mrs.  Sullivan's, 
rubbed  his  hands  together,  for  they  were  cold  with  being  out  in 
the  frosty  evening,  and  then,  spreading  them  in  front  of  the  fire, 
took  a  general  view  of  his  reformed  domicile,  and  of  Gerty,  who, 
according  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's  careful  insti notions,  was  preparing  to 
set  the  table  and  toast  the  bread  for  supper.  She  was  standing  on 
a  chair,  taking  down  the  cups  and  saucers  from  among  the  regular 
rows  of  dishes  shining  in  the  th^ee-cornored  cupboard,  having 
already  deposited  on  the  lower  shelf,  where  she  could  reach  it 
from  the  floor,  a  plate  containing  some  smoothly-cut  slices  of 
bread,  which  the  thoughtful  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  prepared  for  her. 
True  watched  her  motions  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  indulge! 
ID  a  short  soliloquy.  "  Mrs.  Sullivan 's  a  clever  woman,  sartaiu, 
and  they  've  made  my  old  house  here  complete,  and  Gerty 's  got  tin 
to  be  like  the  apple  of  id j  eye  and  I 'm  as  h'ippj  a  BLan  as  — ' * 


CHAPTEK  VI. 


Bome  f'ream  that  they  can  silence,  when  they  Tfill, 
The  storm  of  passion,  and  say  peace^  be  still  ! 

He-UL  True  was  interrupted.  Quick,  noisy  footsteps  iii  the  pas. 
fsage  w3-e  followed  by  a  sudden  and  unceremonious  opening'of  tli€ 
door. 

Here,  Uncle  True,"  said  tlie  new  comer  ;  here 's  your  pack, 
acre.  You  forgot  all  about  it,  I  guess  ;  and  I  forgot  it,  too,  till 
nrother  saw  it  on  the  table,  where  I 'd  laid  it  down.  I  was  so 
taliea  up  with  just  coming  home,  you  know." 

-  Of  course,  —  of  course  ! "  said  True.  "  Much  obleeged  to  you, 
Willie,  for  fetchin'  it  for  me.  It 's  pretty  brittle  stuff  it 's  made 
of,  and  most  like  I  should  a  smashed  it,  'fore  i  got  it  home." 

"  What  is  it  ?  —  I 've  been  wondering." 
Why,  it's  a  little  knick-knack  I 've  brought  home  for  Gerty 
here,  that  —  " 

"  Willie  !  Willie  !  "  called  Mrs.  Sullivan  from  the  opposite  room, 
'  have  you  been  to  tea,  dear  ? " 

No,  indeed,  mother  ;  —  have  you  ?  " 
"  Whv,  yes  ;  but  I  '11  get  you  some." 

"  No,'no  !  "  said  True  ;  "  stay  and  take  tea  with  us,  Willie  ; 
take  te'a  here,  my  boy.  My  little  Gerty  is  makin'  some  famous 
toast,  and  I  '11  put  the  tea  a  steepin'  presently." 

"  So  I  will,"  said  Willie ;  I  should  like  to,  first-rate.  No  mat- 
tei  about  any  supper  for  me,  mother  ;  I 'm  going  to  have  my  tea 
here,  ^uth  Uncle  True.  Come,  now,  let 's  see  what 's  m  the  bundle ; 
out  fir.^tl  want  to  see  little  Gerty;  motlicr 's  been  telling  me 
about  her  Where  is  she  ?  -  has  she  got  weU  ?  She 's  been  f 
sick  has  n't  shs  ?  " 


/ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


41 


O,  yes»  she 's  nicely  now,"  said  True.  "  Here  Gerty,  look 
liere  !    Why,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  There  she  is,  hiding  up  behind  the  settle,"  said  Willie,  laugh 
ing.   "  She  an't  afraid  of  me,  is  she  ?  " 

"  WeU,  I  did  n't  know  as  she  was  shy,"  said  True.  "  You  silly 
little  girl,"  addad  he,  going  towards  her,  "  come  out  here,  and  see 
Willie.    This  is  Willie  Sullivan." 

I  don't  want  to  see  him,"  said  Gerty. 

"  Don't  want  to  see  Willie  ! "  said  True  ;  why,  you  aon't  know 
what  you  'i-e  sayin'.  Willie 's  the  best  boy  that  ever  wus  ;  I 
spect  you  and  he  '11  be  great  friends,  by  and  by." 

He  won't  like  me,"  said  Gerty  ;  "  I  know  he  won't !  " 

"  Why  shan't  I  like  you  ? "  said  Willie,  approaching  the  corner 
where  Gerty  had  hid  herself.  Her  face  was  covered  v/ith  her 
lands,  according  to  her  usual  fashion  when  anything  distresfced 
aer.    "  I  guess  I  shall  like  you  first-rate,  when  I  see  you." 

He  stooped  down  as  he  spoke,  for  he  was  much  taller  than 
Grerty,  and,  taking  her  hands  directly  down  from  her  face  and 
aolding  them  tight  in  his  own,  he  fixed  his  eyes  full  upon  her, 
ind,  nodding  pleasantly,  said. 

How  do  do.  Cousin  Gert}  —  how  do  do  ?  " 

"  I  an't  your  cousin  !  "  said  Gerty. 

"  Yes  you  are,"  said  Willie,  decidedly ;  "  Uncle  True 's  your 
uncle,  and  mine  too ;  —  so  we  're  cousins  —  don't  you  see  ?  —  and 
L  want  to  get  acquainted." 

Gerty  could  not  resist  Willie's  good-natured  words  and  manner. 
She  sufi'ered  him  to  draw  her  out  of  the  corner,  and  towards  the 
lighter  end  of  the  room.  As  she  came  near  the  lamp,  she  tried  to 
free  her  hands,  in  order  to  cover  her  face  up  again ;  but  Willie 
would  not  let  her,  and,  attracting  her  attention  to  the  unopened 
package,  and  exciting  her  curiosity  as  to  what  it  might  contain, 
he  succeeded  in  diverting  her  thoughts  from  herself,  so  that  in  a 
ftw  minutes  she  seemed  quite  at  her  ease. 

"There,  Uncle  True  says  it 's  for  you,"  said  Willie;  "  and  I  can'l 
think  what 't  is,  can  you  ?    Feel  —  it 's  hard  as  can  be  " 

Gerty  felt,  and  looked  up  wonderingly  in  True's  face. 

«  Undo  it,  Willie,"  said  True. 
4# 


^  THE  LAMPLlGHTEl;. 

Willie  produced  a  knife,  cut  the  string,  took  off  tlie  paper,  ai^i 
di-closcd  one  of  those  wh^te  plaster  images,  so  familiar  to  every 
one,  representing  the  little  Samuel  in  an  attitude  of  devotion. 

"  0  how  pretty  !  "  exclaimed  Gerty,  full  of  delight. 

"Why  didn't  I  think?"  said  Willie;  "I  might  have  known 
what 't  was,  by  the  feeling." 

"  Why  !  did  j'ou  ever  see  it  before  ?  "  said  Gerty.  ^ 

"  Not  this  same  one  ;  but  I 've  seen  lots  just  like  it." 

"Have  you?"  said  Gerty.  "  I  never  did.  I  think  it 's  tbe 
oeautifuUest  thing  that  ever  was.  Uncle  Time,  did  you  say  it  was, 
for  me  ?    Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  by  an  accident  I  got  it.  A  few  minutes  before  x.  met 
you,  Willie,  I  was  stoppin'  at  the  corner  to  light  my  lamp,  when  1 
saw  one  of  those  ficrren  boys  with  a  sight  o'  these  sort  of  things, 
and  some  black  ones  too,  all  set  up  on  a  board,  and  he  was  walkui' 
with  'em  a-top  of  his  head.  I  was  just  a  wonderin'  how  he  kept  'em 
there,  when  he  hit  the  board  agin  my  lamp-post,  and,  the  first  thing 
I  knew,  whack  thev  all  went !  He 'd  spilt  'em  every  one.  Lucky 
enou^rh  for  him.  there  was  a  great  bank  of  soft  snow  close  to  the 
side-walk,  and  the  most  of  'em  fell  into  that,  and  wasn't  hurt 
Some  few  went  on  to  the  bricks,  and  were  smashed.  Well,  I  kind 
0'  pitied  the  feller;  for  it  was  late,  and  I  thought  like  enough  he 
had  n't  had  much  luck  sellin'  of  'em,  to  have  so  many  left  on  his 
hands—" 

"  On  his  head,  you  mean,"  said  Willie. 

"Yes,  Master  Willie,  or  on  the  snow,"  said  True;  "anyway 
you  're  a  mind  to  have  it." 

"  And  I  know  what  you  did.  Uncle  True,  just  as  well  as  if  I 'd 
seen  you,"  said  Willie  ;  "  you  set  your  ladder  and  lantern  r'ght 
down,  and  went  to  work  helping  him  piik 'em  all  up,  — that's 
just  what  you 'd  be  sure  to  do  for  anybody.  I  hope,  if  ever  you 
get  into  trouble,  some  of  the  folks  you 've  helped  will  be  by  to 
make  return." 

"  This  feller,  ^Villle,  did  n't  wait  for  me  to  get  into  trouble  ;  he 
made  return  right  off.  When  they  were  all  set  right,  he  bowed, 
and  scraped,  and  touched  his  hat  to  me,  as  if  I'd  been  the  biggest 
^eutlemau  uxu^uuia.  KuSia  aou  ^l*  *as.  al]  &e  time  though 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


43 


rou!d  n't  mako  out  a  word  of  his  lingo ;  and  then  he  insisted  on 
my  takir.'  one  o'  the  figurs.  I  wan't  agoiu  to,  fur  I  did  n't  want 
it;  but  1  happened  to  think  little  Gerty  might  like  it." 

"  0, 1  shall  like  it !  "  said  Gerty.  "  I  shall  like  it  better  than- 
no,  not  better,  but  almost  as  well  as  my  kitten  ;  not  quite  as  wen, 
because  that  was  alive,  and  this  is  n't ;  but  almost,    0,  an't  he  a 
cunning  little  boy  ?  " 

True,  finding  that  Gerty  was  wholly  taken  up  with  the  image, 
walked  away  and  began  to  get  the  tea,  leaving  the  two  children 
to  entertain  each  other. 

"  You  must  take  care  and  not  break  it,  Gerty,"  said  Willie. 
"  We  had  a  Samuel  once,  just  like  it,  in  the  shop ;  and  I  dropped 
it  out  of  my  hand  on  to  the  counter,  and  broke  it  mto  a  million 
pieces." 

"  W^hat  did  you  call  it  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"  A  Samuel ;  they  're  all  Samuels." 

"     hat  are  Sainmhs  1  "  said  Gerty. 

«  Why,  that 's  the  name  of  the  child  they  'rc  taken  for." 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  he 's  sittin'  on  his  knee  for  ?  " 

Willie  laughed.    "  Y/hy,  don't  you  know  ?  "  said  he 

"  No,"  said  Gerty  ;  "  what  is  he  ?  " 

"  He 's  praying,"  said  Willie. 

Is  that  what  he 's  got  his  eyes  turned  up  for,  too  ?  " 
**  Yes,  of  course  ;  he  looks  up  to  heaven  when  he  prays." 

*  Up  to  where  ?  " 

*  To  heaven." 

Serty  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
e^;  were  turned,  then  at  the  figure.  She  seemed  very  much  di^* 
Bavisfied  and  puzzled. 

'  Y^hy,  Gerty,"  said  Willie,  "  I  should  n't  think  you  knew  what 
pri^ying  was." 

I  don't,"  said  Gorty ;  "  tell  me." 

"  Doi't  you  ever  pray,  — pray  to  God  ?  " 

"  No  /  don't.  —  Who  is  God  ?    Where  is  God  ? 

Willie  looked  inexpressibly  shocked  at  Gerty 's  ignorance,  aotl 
,  wiswercd,  reverently,  "  God  is  in  heaven,  Gerty  " 


44 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


«  T  don't  know  where  that  is,"  said  Gerty.        believe  I  don 
know  nothin'  about  it." 

-  I  should  n't  think  you  did,"  said  Willie.  "  I  believe  heaven 
is  up  in  the  sky;  but  my  Sunday-school  teacher  ^ays,  *  heaven  is 
anywhere  where  goodness  is,'  or  some  such  thing,"  he  said. 

"  Are  the  stars  in  heaven  ?  "  said  Gerty. 
They  look  so,  don't  they?"  said  Willie.    "They're  in  tha 
sky,  where  I  always  used  to  think  heaven  was  " 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  heaven,"  said  Gerty. 

"Perhaps,  if  you're  good,  you  will  go,  some  time." 

"  Can't  any  but  good  folks  go  ?  " 
No." 

"  Then  I  can't  ever  go,"  said  Gerty,  mournfully. 
"  W  hy  not  ?  "  said  Willie  ;  "  an't  you  good  ? " 
^*0,  no>.  I'm  very  bad." 

-  W  hat  a  queer  child  !  "  said  Willie.  "  What  makes  you  think 
yourself  so  very  bad  ?  " 

"0!  I  amr  said  Gerty,  in  a  very  sad  tone;  "I'm  the  worst 
of  all.    I 'm  the  worst  child  in  the  world." 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?  " 

"Everybody.  Nan  Grant  says  so,  and  she  says  everybody 
thinks  so  ;  I  know  it,  too,  myself." 

« Is  Nan  Grant  the  cross  old  woman  you  used  to  live  with  ? " 

"  Yes.    How  did  you  know  she  was  cross  ? " 

"  0,  my  mother 's  been  telling  me  about  her.  Well,  1  want^to 
know  if  she  did  n't  send  you  to  school,  or  teach  you  anything  ?  " 

Gerty  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  what  lots  you 've  got  to  learn !    mat  did  you  used  to 
do,  wher.  you  lived  there  ?  " 
"  Nothing:." 

Never  did  anything,  and  don't  know  anything ;  my  gracious ' " 
"  Yes,  I  do  know  one  thing,"  said  Gerty.  "  I  know  how  to  toast 
bread;  — your  mother  taught  me;  — she  let  me  toast  some  by 
her  fire." 

As  she  spoke,  she  thought  of  her  own  neglected  toast,  and 
b^ncd  towards  the  stove ;  but  she  was  too  late,  —  the  toast  was 
made,  the  supper  ready,  and  True  was  ^ist  putting  it  on  the  Ubla 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


45 


O,  Uncle  T-:ue,"  said  she,  "  I  meant  to  get  tlie  tea." 
"I  know  it/'  said  True,  "  but  it's  no  matter;  you  can  get  it 
lo-morrow.'' 

The  tears  came  into  Gerty's  eyes;  —  she  looked  very  mueb 
disappointed,  but  said  nothing.  They  all  sat  down  to  supper. 
Willie  put  the  Samuel  in  the  middle  of  the  table  for  a  centre 
ornament,  and  told  so  many  fanny  stories,  and  said  £0  many 
pleasant  things,  that  Gerty  laughed  heartily,  forgot  that  she  did 
not  make  the  toast  herself,  forgot  her  sadness,  her  shyness,  even 
her  udiness  and  wickedness,  and  showed  herself,  for  once,  a 
merry  child.  x\fter  tea,  she  sat  beside  Willie  on  the  great  settle, 
and,  in  her  peculiar  way,  and  with  many  odd  expressions  and 
remarks,  gave  him  a  description  of  her  life  at  Nan  Grant's, 
winding  up  with  a  touching  account  of  the  death  of  her  kitten. 

The  two  children  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  become  as  good 
friends  as  True  could  possibly  wish.  True  himself  sat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  stove,  smoking  his  pipe ;  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  children,  and  his  ears  drinking  in  all 
their  conversation.  He  was  no  restraint  upon  them.  So  simple- 
hearted  and  sympathizing  a  being,  so  ready  to  be  amused  and 
pleased,  so  slow  to  blame  or  disapprove,  could  never  be  any 
check  upon  the  gayety  or  freedom  of  the  youngest,  most  careless 
spirit.  He  laughed  when  thej  laughed ;  seemed  soberly  satisfied, 
and  took  long  whiffs  at  his  pipe,  when  they  talked  quietly  and 
sedately;  ceased  smoking  entirely,  letting  his  pipe  rest  on  his 
knee,  and  secretly  wiping  awaj  a  tear,  when  Gerty  recounted 
her  childish  griefs.  He  had  heard  the  story  before,  and  he 
filled  then.  He  often  heard  it  afterwards,  but  never  w'^naut 
mjing. 

After  Gerty  had  closed  h^r  Ule  of  sorrows,  which  was  fre- 
quently interrupted  by  Willie's  ejaculations  of  condolence  or 
pity,  she  sat  for  a  moment  xyithout  speaking:  then,  becoming 
excited,  as  her  un governed  and  easily  roused  nature  dwelt  upon 
its  wrongs,  she  burst  forth  in  very  different  tone  from  that  in 
which  she  had  been  speaking,  and  commenced  uttering  the  mosi 
bitter  invectives  agiinst  Nan  Grant ,  making  use  of  many  a 
rougt  and  coarse  term,  such  as  3he  had  been  accustomed  to  iieai 


46 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


used  by  thfi  ill-bred  people  with  whom  she  had  lived.  The  child*6 
language  expressed  unmitigated  hatred,  and  even  a  hope  of 
future  revenge.  True  looked  worried  and  troubled  at  hearing  hei 
ta.k  so  angrily.  Since  he  brought  her  home  he  had  never  wit^ 
ne?sed  sudi  a  display  of  temper,  and  had  fondly  believed  that 
she  would  always  be  as  quiet  and  gentle  as  during  her  illnesi  and 
the  few  weeks  subsequent  to  it.  True's  own  disposition  was  so 
placid,  amiable  and  forgiving,  that  he  could  not  imagine  that  any 
one,  and  especially  a  little  child,  should  long  retain  feelings  of 
anger  and  bitterness.  Gerty  had  shown  herself  so  mild  and 
patient  since  she  had  been  with  him,  so  submissive  to  his  wishes, 
GO  anxious  even  to  forestall  them,  that  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  to  dread  any  difficulty  in  the  management  of  the  child.  Now, 
however,  as  he  observed  her  flashing  eyes,  and  noticed  the  doubling 
of  her  little  fist,  as  she  menaced  Nan  with  her  future  wrath,  ho 
had  an  undefined,  half-formed  presentiment  of  coming  trouble  in 
the  control  of  his  little  charge ;  a  feeling  almost  of  alarm,  lest  he 
had  undertaken  what  he  could  never  perform.  For  the  moment 
she  ceased,  in  his  eyes,  to  be  the  pet  and  plaything  he  had  hith- 
erto  considered  her.  He  saw  in  her  something  which  needed  a 
check,  and  felt  himself  un^t  to  apply  it. 

And  no  wonder.  He  was  totally  unfit  to  cope  with  a  spirit 
like  Gerty's.  It  was  true  he  possessed  over  her  one  mighty  influ- 
ence, her  strong  affection  for  him,  which  he  could  not  doubt. 

It  was  that  which  made  her  so  submissive  and  patient  in  her 
sickness,  so  grateful  for  his  care  and  kindness,  so  anxious  to  do 
something  in  return.  It  was  that  deep  love  for  her  first  friend, 
which,  never  wavering,  and  growing  stronger  to  the  last,  proved, 
in  after  years,  a  noble  motive  for  exertion,  a  worthy  incentive  to 
virtue.  It  was  that  love,  fortified  and  illumined  by  a  higher 
light,  which  came  in  time  to  sanctify  it,  that  gave  her,  while  yet 
a  mere  girl,  a  woman's  courage,  a  woman's  strength  of  heart  and 
self-denial.  It  was  that  which  cheered  the  old  man's  latter  years, 
and  shed  joy  on  his  dying  bed. 

But  for  the  present  it  was  not  enough.  The  kindness  she  had 
received  for  the  few  weeks  past  had  completely  softened  Gerty's 
Heart  towaiis  W  benefactors ;  but  the  effect  of  eight  years*  mia 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


47 


managerat^nt,  ill  treatment,  and  want  of  all  judicious  discipline, 
could  not  be  done  away  in  that  short  time.  Her  unruly  nature 
could  not  be  so  suddenly  quelled,  her  better  capabilities  called 
into  action. 

The  plant  that  for  years  has  been  growing  distorted,  and 
dwelling  in  a  barren  spot,  deprived  of  light  and  nouiishment, 
withered  in  its  leaves  and  blighted  in  its  fruit,  cannot  at  onoc 
recover  from  so  cruel  a  blast.  Transplanted  to  another  soil,  it 
must  b«  directed  in  the  right  course,  nourished  with  care  and 
warmed  with  Heaven's  light,  ere  it  can  recover  from  the  shock 
occasioned  by  its  early  neglect,  and  find  strength  to  expand  its 
flowers  and  ripen  its  fruit. 

So  with  little  Gerty ;  —  a  new  direction  must  be  given  to  her 
ideas,  new  nourishment  to  her  mind,  new  light  to  her  soul,  ere  tho 
higher  purposes  for  which  she  was  created  could  be  accomplished 
in  her. 

Something  of  this  True  felt,  and  it  troubled  him.  He  did  not, 
however,  attempt  to  check  the  child.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
do,  and  so  did  nothing. 

Willie  tried  once  or  twice  to  stop  the  current  of  her  aba?  re 
language ;  but  soon  desisted,  for  she  did  not  pay  the  least  at  ;en 
tion  to  him.  He  could  not  help  smiling  at  her  childish  wrath ; 
nor  could  he  resist  sympathizing  with  her  in  a  degree,  and  almost 
wishing  he  could  have  a  brush  with  Nan  himself,  and  express  his 
opinion  of  her  character  in  one  or  two  hard  knocks.  But  he  had 
been  well  brought  up  by  his  gentle  mother,  was  conscious  that 
Gerty  was  exhibiting  a  very  hot  temper,  and  began  to  understand 
what  made  everybody  think  her  so  bad. 

After  Gerty  had  railed  about  Nan  a  little  while,  she  stopped 
of  her  own  accoi'd ;  though  an  unpleasant  look  remained  on  her 
countenance,  one  of  her  old  looks,  that  it  was  a  pity  should 
return,  but  which  always  did  when  she  got  into  a  passion.  It 
soon  passed  away,  however,  and  when,  a  little  later  in  the  even- 
ing, Mrs.  Sullivan  appeared  at  the  door,  Gerty  looked  bright  and 
happy,  listened  with  evident  delight  whil^  True  uttered  warm 
expressions  of  thanks  for  the  labor  which  had  been  undertaken  in 
bis  bebaJf,  and  when  Willie  went  away  with  his  mother,  said  her 


jjj  TOE  LAMrUGHTEB. 

rrood-night  and  asked  him  to  corae  ajrain  so  pleasantly,  and  hci 
eye^^  looked  so  bright  as  she  stood  holding  on  to  Tme's  hand  id 
the  doorway,  that  ^Villie  said,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hear- 
ing,  "  She 's  a  queer  little  thing,  an't  she,  mother  ?  But  I  kmd 
o'  like  her." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh. 

The  falling  of  a  tear, 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

■\Vhen  none  but  God  13  near. 

MONTGOMEIT 

Ir  would  have  been  hard  to  find  two  children,  both  belonging 
the  poorer  class,  whose  situations  in  life  had,  thus  far,  pre- 
sentcd  a  mor«  complete  contrast  than  those  of  Gerty  and  Willie. 
With  Gerty's  experiences  the  reader  is  somewhat  acquainted.  A 
neglected  orphan,  she  had  received  little  of  that  care,  and  still 
less  of  that  love,  which  Willie  had  always  enjoyed.  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van's  husband  was  an  intelligent  country  clergyman ;  but,  as  he 
died  when  ^Villie  was  a  baby,  leaving  very  little  property  tor  the 
support  of  his  family,  the  widow  went  home  to  her  father  takino 
her  child  with  her.  The  old  man  needed  his  daughter ;  for  death 
had  made  sad  inroads  in  his  household  since  she  left  it,  and  he 
was  alone. 

From  that  time  the  three  had  lived  together  in  humble  com- 
fort ;  for,  though  poor,  industry  and  frugality  secured  thom  from 
want.  Willie  was  his  mother's  pride,  her  hope,  her  constant 
thought.  She  spared  herself  no  toil  or  care  to  provide  for  his 
physical  comfort,  his  happiness,  and  his  growth  in  knowledge  and 
virtue. 

It  would  have  been  strange  enough  if  she  had  not  been  proud 
of  a  boy  whose  uncommon  beauty,  winning  disposition,  and  early 
evidences  of  a  manly  and  noble  nature,  won  him  friends  evcu 
among  strangers.  He  had  been  a  handsome  child ;  but  there  was 
taat  oDservable  in  him,  now  that  he  had  nearly  reached  his  thir- 
teenth  year,  far  excelling  the  common  'ooyish  beauty,  which  coa- 
Bists  merely  ir  curly  hair,  rkrk  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks.  It  WM 
5 


f^l^  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

his  broad,  open  forehead,  the  clearness  and  calirncss  of  his  fu.. 
gray  eye,  the  expressive  mouth,  so  determined  and  yet  so  n-'ild. 
•he  well-doveloped  figure  and  ruddy  complexion,  proclaimmg  high 
lealth,  which  gave  promise  of  power  to  the  future  man.    No  one 
could  have  been  in  the  boy's  company  half  an  hour ,  without  lov  mg 
and  admiring  him.    He  had  naturally  a  warm-htarted,  affcctioa- 
ate  disposition,  which  Ills  mother's  love  and  the  world's  smiles  had 
fostered;  an  unusual  flow  of  animal  spirits,  tempered  by  a  natural 
politeness  towards  his  elders  and  superiors;  a  quick  apprehcn- 
Hion;  a  readv  command  of  language;  a  sincere  sympathy  in 
others'  pleasures  and  pains;  in  fine,  one  of  those  genial  natuies 
that  wins  hearts  one  knows  not  how.    He  was  fond  of  study,  and 
until  his  twelfth  year  his  mother  kept  him  constantly  at  scnool. 
The  sons  of  poor  parents  have,  in  our  large  cities,  almost  every 
educational  advantage  that  can  be  obtained  by  wealth ;  and  W  li-.e 
having  an  excellent  capacity,  and  being  constantly  encouraged 
and  exhorted  by  his  mother  to  improve  his  opportunities  to  ine 
utmost,  had  attained  a  degree  of  proficiency  quite  unusual  at  dis 

""^When  he  was  twelve  years  old  he  had  an  excellent  opportunity 
to  enter  into  the  service  of  an  apothecary,  who  did  an  extensive 
business  in  the  city,  and  wanted  a  boy  to  assist  in  his  store.  Lne 
wages  that  Mr.  Bray  offered  were  not  great,  but  there  was  ho 
hope  of  an  increased  salary;  and,  at  any  rate,  situated  as  W.Uie 
was,  it  was  not  a  chance  to  be  overlooked.  Fond  as  he  was^  of 
his  books,  he  had  long  been  eager  to  be  at  work,  helping  to  bear 
the  burden  of  labor  in  the  family.  His  mother  and  grandiather 
assented  to  the  plan,  and  he  gladly  accepted  Mr.  Bray  s  pro- 

^''lle  was  sadiy  missed  at  home;  for,  as  he  slept  at  the  store  dur- 
i„2  the  week,  he  rarely  had  much  leisure  to  make  even  a  pas«ng 
visit  to  his  mother,  except  on  Saturday,  ^hen  he  came  home  at 
night  and  passed  Sunday.  So  Saturday  night  was  Mrs  Sullivan  3 
happy  nir^ht,  and  the  Sabbath  became  a  more  blessed  day  than 


ever. 


When  Willie  reached  his  mother's  room  on  the  evening  of 
Which  we  have  been  speaking,  he  sat  down  with  her  and  Mr 


THE  I-AMPLIGHTER.  5J 

Joopor,  atd  for  an  hour  conversation  was  brisk  with  them. 
Willie  never  came  home  that  he  had  not  a  great  deal  to  rolaM 
concerning  the  occurrences  of  the  week;  many  a  little  anecdote  to 
-ell;  many  a  circumstance  connected  with  the  shop,  the  customers, 
his  master  the  apothecary,  and  his  master's  family,  with  whom  ha 
took  his  meals.    Mrs.  Sullivan  was  interested  in  everythinrr  (hat 
interested  Willie,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  old  grandfather 
was  more  entertained  by  the  boy  than  ho  was  willing  to  appear- 
for,  though  he  sat  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  did  not  seem 
to  listen,  he  usually  heard  all  that  was  said,  as  was  often  provfd 
afterwards  by  some  accidental  reference  he  would  make  to  the 
subject.    He  seldom  asked  questions,  and  indeed  it  was  not  neces- 
sary,  for  Mrs.  Sullivan  asked  enough  for  them  both.    He  seldom 
made  comments,  but  would  occasionally  utter  an  impatient  or 
contemptuous  expression  regarding  individuals  or  the  world  in 
general;  thereby  evidencing  that  distrust  of  human  nature,  that 
want  of  confidence  in  men's  honesty  and  virtue,  which  formed  aa 
we  have  said,  a  marked  trait  in  the  old  man's  character.  Willie's 
spirits  would  then  receive  a  momentary  check;  for  he  loved  and 
trusted  everyhoiy,  and  his  grandfather's  words,  and  the  tone  in 
which  they  were  spoken,  were  a  damper  to  his  young  soul ;  but, 
with  the  elasticity  of  youth  and  a  gay  heart,  they  would  soon 
rebound,  and  he  would  go  on  as  before.    Willie  did  not  fear  his 
grandfather,  who  had  never  been  severe  to  him,  never  havin<r  in- 
deed,  interfered  at  all  with  Mrs.  Sullivan's  management ;  but  he 
sometimes  felt  chilled,  though  he  hardly  knew  why,  by  his  want 
of  sympathy  with  his  own  warm-heartedness.    On  the  present 
occasion,  the  conversation  having  turned  at  last  upon  True  Flint 
and  his  adopted  child,  Mr.  Cooper  had  been  unusually  bitter  and 
satirical,  and,  as  he  took  his  lamp  to  go  to  bed,  wound  up  with 
remarking  that  he  knew  very  well  Gerty  would  never  be  any- 
thing  but  a  trouble  to  Flint,  who  was  a  fool  not  to  send  her  to 
the  ahns-hoiise  at  once. 

There  was  a  pause  after  the  old  man  left  the  room;  then  Willia 
exclaimed,  -  Mother,  what  makes  grandfather  hate  folks  ^ ' 
"  Why,  he  don't,  Willie.'' 

^  T  don't  mean  exactly  hate.^l  don't  suppose  he  does  fvvt. 

LIBRARY  ^ 


j,2  THB  LAiir  IGHTEB. 

mtite .  but  he  don't  seem  to  thtiu  a  great  deal  of  anybody  —  do 
you  think  he  does?  " 

"  0,  yes;  he  don't  show  it  much,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan  ;  "hut  ba 
thinks' a  great  deal  of  you,  Willie,  and  he  wouldn't  have  any- 
thing  happen  to  mt  for  the  world;  and  he  likes  Mr.  Flint,  and—" 
"'b,  yes,  I  know  that,  of  course ;  I  don't  mean  that ;  but  he 
doesn't  th'iuk  there's   much  goodness  in  foiks,  and  ho  don't 
&:em  to  think  anybody 's  going  to  turn  out  weii  and  —  "^^ 
"  You  're  thinking  of  what  he  said  about  little  Gerty." 
"  Well,  she  an't  the  only  one.    That 's  what  made  me  speak 
of  it  now,  but  I've  often  noticed  it  before,  particularly^ S' nee  I 
went  away  from  home,  and  am  only  here  once  a  week.   Now,  you 
know  I  thiuk  everything  of  Mr.  Bray;  and  when  I  was  telling 
to-ni'Tht  how  much  good  he  did,  and  how  kind  he  was  to  old  Mrs. 
MorHs  and  her  siek  daughter,  grandfather  looked  just ^  as  if  he 
didn't  believe  it,  or  did  n't  think  much  of  it,  somehow." 

"0,  well,  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "you  mustn't  wonder 
much  at  that.     Grandpa 's  had  a  good  many  disappointments. 
You  know  he  thou-ht  everything  of  Uncle  Richard,  and  there  was 
no  end  to  the  trouble  he  had  with  him ;  and  there  was  Aunt 
Sarah's  husband  — he  seemed  to  be  such  a  fine  fellow  when  Sally 
married  him,  but  he  cheated  father  dreadfully  at  last,  so  that  he 
had  to  mortgage  his  house  in  High-street,  and  finally  give  it  up 
entirely.  He 's  dead  now,  and  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against 
him ;  but  he  did  n't  prove  what  we  expected,  and  it  broke  Sally's 
heart,  1  think.    That  was  a  dreadful  trial  to  father,  for  she  was 
the  youngest,  and  had  always  been  his  pet.    And,  just  after  that, 
oiother  was  taken  down  with  her  death-stroke,  and  there  was  a 
quack  doctor  prescribed  for  her,  that  father  always  thought  did 
her  more  hurt  than  good.     0.  take  it  altogether,  he's  had  a 
gieat  deal  to  make  l.im  look  on  rhe  dark  side  now;  but  you 
mustn't  mind  it,  Willie;  you  must  take  care  and  turn  out  well 
yourself  my  son,  and  then  he  '11  be  proud  enough  ;  he 's  as  pleased 
as  he  can  be  when  he  hears  you  praised,  and  expects  great  thirgs 
of  you,  one  of  these  days." 

Here  the  conversation  ended;  but  not  until  the  boy  had  added 
another  to  tdie  many  resolves  akeady  made.  that,  if  his  health 


iflE  Lamplighter. 


and  strength  wure  spared,  he  would  prove  to  his  grandfather  that 
hopes  were  n  jt  always  deceitful,  and  that  fears  were  sometimes 
groundless. 

0 !  what  a  glorious  thing  it  is  for  a  youth  when  he  has  ever 
present  with  him  a  high,  a  noble,  an  unselfish  motive  !  What  an 
incentive  is  it  to  exertion,  perseverance  and  self-denial !  What  a 
force  to  urge  him  on  to  ever-increasing  efforts  !  Fears  that  would 
otherwise  appall,  discouragements  that  would  dishearten,  labors 
that  would  weary,  obstacles  that  would  dismay,  opposition  that 
would  crush,  temptation  that  would  overcome,  all,  all  lie  disarmed 
and  powerless,  when,  with  a  single-hearted  and  worthy  aim,  ho 
struggles  for  the  victory  I 

And  so  it  is,  that  those  born  in  honor,  wealth  and  luxury,  sel- 
dom achieve  greatness.  They  were  not  horn  for  labor ;  and, 
without  labor,  nothing  that  is  worth  having  can  be  won.  Wh;y 
will  they  not  make  it  their  great  and  absorbing  motive  (a  worthy 
one  it  certain' y  would  be),  to  overcome  the  disadvantages  of  their 
position,  and  make  themselves  great,  learned,  wise  and  good,  in 
spite  of  those  riches,  that  honorable  birth,  that  opportunity  for 
luxurious  sloth,  which  are,  in  reality,  to  the  clear-judging  eye  of 
wise  men  and  angels,  their  deadliest  snare  ^  A  motive  Willie 
had  long  had.  His  grandfather  was  old,  his  mother  weak,  and 
both  poor.  He  must  be  the  staff  of  their  old  age  ;  he  must  labor 
for  their  support  and  comfort;  he  must  do  more  ;  —  they  hoped 
great  things  of  him  ;  they  must  not  be  disappointed.  He  did  not, 
however,  while  arming  himself  for  future  conflict  with  the  world, 
forget  the  present,  but  sat  down  and  learned  his  Sunday-school 
ressons.  After  which,  according  to  custom,  he  read  aloud  in  the 
Bible;  and  then  Mrs.  Sullivan,  laying  her  hand  on  the  head  of 
her  son,  offered  up  a  simple,  heart-felt  prayer  for  the  boy, — erne 
of  those  mother's  prayers,  which  the  child  listens  to  with  rev- 
erence  and  love,  and  remembers  in  the  far-off  years  ;  one  of  those 
prayers  which  keep  men  from  temptation,  and  deliver  tlcm  from 
evil. 

After  Willi3  went  home  that  evening,  and  Gerty  was  loft 
alone  with  True,  she  sat  on  a  low  stool  beside  him  for  some  time, 
wii'nout  speaking.    Her  eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  th@  wUito 
54k 


54 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ImniTi,  Tvhich  lay  in  her  lap  ;  that  her  little  mind  Tvas  very  busy 
there  could  be  no  doubt,  for  thought  was  plainly  written  on  hei 
face.  True  w^as  not  often  the  first  to  speak  ;  but,  finding  Gertj 
unusually  quiet,  he  lifted  up  her  chin,  looked  inquiringly  in  her 
^ace,  and  then  said  : 

"  Well,  Wi.lie 's  a  pretty  clever  sort  of  a  boy,  isn't  he  ?  " 

Gerty  answered,  "Yes;"  without,  however,  seeming  to  knov5 
what  she  was  saying. 

"  You  like  him,  don't  you  ?  "  said  True.' 
Very  much,"  said  Gerty,  in  the  same  absent  way.    It  was 
not  Willie  she  was  thinking  of.    True  waited  for  Gerty  to  begin 
tcilking  about  her  new  acquaintance  ;  but  she  did  not  speak  foi  a 
minute  or  two.    Then  looking  up  suddenly,  she  said : 

"  Uncle  True  ?  " 

«  What  say  ? " 

"  What  does  Samuel  pray  to  God  for  ?  " 

True  stared.  "  Samuel !  — ^  pray  !  —  I  guess  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly what  you  're  saying." 

»'  Why,"  said  Gerty,  holding  up  the  image,  "  Willie  says  this 
little  boy's  name  is  Samuel ;  and  that  he  sits  on  his  knee,  and 
puts  his  hands  together  so,  and  looks  up,  because  he 's  praying  to 
God,  that  lives  up  in  the  sky.  I  don't  know  what  he  means, — 
way  up  in  the  sky,  —  do  you  ?  " 

True  took  the  image  and  looked  at  it  attentively ;  he  moved 
uneasily  upon  his  chair,  scratched  his  head,  and  finally  said : 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  he 's  about  right.    This  'ere  child  is  prayin', 
Ei^rtain,  though  I  did  n't  think  on  it  afore.    But  I  don't  jist  know 
what  he  calls  it  a  Samuel  for.    We  '11  ask  him,  some  time." 
Well,  what  docs  he  pray  for.  Uncle  True  ?  " 

«  0  I  he  prays  to  make  him  good ;  it  makes  folks  good  tc  praj 
tn  God." 

'*  Can  God  make  folks  good  ? " 

'»  Yes.    God  is  very  great ;  he  can  do  anything." 

"  II  )\y  can  he  hear  ?  " 

J«  He  hears  everything  and  sec?  everything  in  the  woi  .(L" 

And  does  he  live  in  the  sky  ?  '"^ 
»*  Ye£  '  said  True,  "  in  heaven." 


THE  LAMPLIGHIBE. 


55 


JMany  more  questions  Gertj  asked;  many  strange  q-iestions, 
/liat  True  coali  not  answer ,  many  questions  that  he  wondered  ha 
had  not  oftener  asked  himself.  True  had  a  humble,  loving  heart, 
and  a  child-like  faith;  he  had  enjoyed  but  little  religious  instruct 
tion,  but  he  earnestly  endeavored  to  live  up  to  the  light  he  had. 
Perhaps,  in  his  faithful  practice  of  the  Christian  virtues,  and  es- 
pecially  in  his  obedience  to  the  great  law  of  Christian  charity, 
be  more  nearly  approached  to  the  spirit  of  his  Divine  Master 
than  many  who,  by  daily  reading  and  study,  are  far  more  familiar 
with  Christian  doctrines.  But  he  had  xiever  inquired  deeply  into 
the  sources  of  that  belief  which  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to 
doubt ;  and  he  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  the  questions  sug- 
gested  by  the  inquisitive,  keen  and  newly-excited  mind  of  little 
Gerty.  He  answered  her  as  well  as  he  could,  however ;  and. 
where  he  was  at  fault,  hesitated  not  to  refer  her  to  Willie,  wno, 
he  told  her,  went  to  Sunday-school,  and  knew  a  wonderful  sight 
about  such  things.  All  the  information  that  Gerty  could  gain 
amounted  to  the  knowledge  of  these  facts :  that  God  was  in 
heaven  ;  that  his  power  was  great ;  and  that  people  were  made 
better  by  prayer.  Her  little  eager  brain  was  so  intent  upon  the 
subject,  however,  that,  as  it  grew  late,  the  thought  even  of  sleep- 
ing  in  her  new  room  could  not  efface  it  from  her  mind.  After 
she  had  gone  to  bed,  with  the  white  image  hugged  close  to  her 
bosom,  and  True  had  taken  away  the  lamp,  she  lay  for  a  long 
time  with  her  eyes  wide  open.  Just  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  was 
the  window.  Gerty  could  see  out,  as  she  had  done  before  in  her 
garret  at  Nan  Grant's ;  but,  the  window  being  larger,  she  had  a 
much  more  extended  view.  The  sky  was  bright  with  stars  ,  and 
the  sight  of  them  revived  her  old  wonder  and  curiosity  as  to  the 
author  of  such  distant  and  brilliant  lights.  Now,  however,  as 
she  gazecT,  there  darted  through  her  mind  the  thought,  '  God  lit 
them  !^  0,  how  great  he  must  be  !  But  a  child  mighc  pray  to 
him!"  ^  Sh^rose  from  her  little  bed,  approached  the  window, 
and,  falling  (V.nker  knees  and  clasping  her  hands  precisely  i  i  the 
attitude  of  the  little  Samuel,  she  looked  up  to  heaven.  She 
spoke  no  word,  ait  her  eyes  glistened  with  the  dew  of  a  tear 
that  stood  in  each.  Was  not  each  tear  a  prayer  ?  She  breathed 
uo  petition;  but  sk,  longed  for  God  and  virtue.  Was  no^  that  very 


56 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEI^ 


wish  a  prayer?  Her  little  uplifted  heart  throbbed  vehcmenhy. 
Was  not  each  throb  a  prayer?  And  did  not  Go  J  in  heaven, 
without  whom  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground,  hear  and  accept 
that  first  homage  of  a  little,  untaught  child ;  and  did  it  not  call 
a  blessing  down  ? 

Many  a  petition  did  Gerty  offer  up  in  after  years.  In  many  a 
time  of  trouble  did  she  come  to  God  for  help  ;  in  many  an  hour 
of  bitter  sorrow  did  she  from  the  same  source  seek  comfort  >  and, 
when  her  strength  and  heart  failed  her,  God  became  the  strength 
cf  her  heart.  But  never  did  she  approach  his  throne  with  a 
purer  offering,  a  more  acceptable  sacrifice,  than  when,  in  her  first 
deep  penitence,  her  first  earnest  faith,  her  first  enkindled  hope, 
ghe  took  the  attitude,  and  her  heart  uttered,  though  her  li'>9  pin)^ 
Ecun<)ed  them  not,  the  words  of  the  prof  het-child,  "Herp  w  T 
Lordl' 


C  H  A I  T  E  R  VIII. 


 Keven^^o,  at  first  though  sweety 

Bitter  ere  loog  back  on  itself  recoils.'* 

MlLTOH* 

Ibf  nex :  day  was  Sunday.  True  was  in  the  habit  of  gzlng  t« 
ehurch  half  tho  day  at  least,  with  the  sexton's  family;  but  Gertj, 
having  no  bonnet,  could  not  go,  and  True  would  not  leave  her. 
So  they  spent  the  morning  together,  wandering  round  among  the 
wharves  and  looking  at  the  ships,  Gerty  wearing  her  old  shawl 
pinned  over  her  head.  In  the  afternoon,  True  fell  asleep  by  the 
fireside,  and  Gerty  played  with  the  cat. 

AVillie  came  in  the  evening ;  but  it  was  only  to  say  good-by, 
before  going  back  to  Mr.  Bray's.  He  was  in  a  hurry,  and  could 
not  stop  at  all;  for  his  master  had  a  sober  household,  and  liked  to 
have  his  doors  closed  early,  especially  Sunday  night.  Old  Mr. 
Cooper,  however,  made  his  usual  visit ;  and,  when  he  had  gone, 
True,  finding  Gerty  sound  asleep  on  the  settle,  thought  it  a 
pity  to  wake  her,  and  laid  her  in  bed  with  her  clothes  on. 

She  did  not  wake  until  morning;  and  then,  much  surprised  and 
amused  at  finding  herself  dressed,  sprung  up  and  ran  out.  to  a«k 
True  how  it  happened.  True  was  busy  making  the  fire ;  and 
Gerty,  having  received  satisfactory  answers  to  her  numerous  in- 
quiries,—  when  and  where  she  fell  asleep,  and  how  she  came  in 
bed, —  applied  herself  earnestly  to  help  in  every  possible  way 
about  getting  the  breakfast,  and  putting  the  room  in  order  She 
followed  Mrs.  Sullivan's  instructions,  all  of  v/hich  she  remem- 
bered, and  showed  a  wonderful  degree  of  capability  in  everything 
she  undertook.  In  the  course  of  the  few  followinn*"  weeks,  during 
which  her  perseverance  held  out  surprisingly,  she  learned  how  to 
make  herself  useful  in  mar.y  ways,  and,  as  Mrs.  Sullivan  had 


58 


THE  LAMPLIGRTER. 


pro|:.>iesiod,  gave  promise  of  becoming,  one  day,  quite  a  clsTei 
little  lioiisekeepcr.  Of  course,  the  services  she  perCoiMiod  were 
tritiiiig ;  but  her  active  and  willing  feet  saved  True  a  great 
many  steps,  and  shew  as  of  essential  aid  in  keeping  the  rooms 
nQii\  that  being  her  especial  ambition.  She  felt  that  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van expected  her,  now  that  the  dust 'and  cobwebs  were  all  cleared 
away,  to  take  care  thut  they  should  not  accumulate  again;  anJ 
it  was  quite  an  amusicg  sight,  every  day,  when  True  had  gone 
out  as  usual  to  fill  and  clean  the  street-lamps,  to  see  the  little 
girl  diligently  laboring  with  an  old  broom,  the  haudle  of  which 
was  cut  short  to  make  it  more  suitable  for  her  use.  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van looked  in  occasionally,  to  praise  and  assist  her;  and  nothing 
made  Gerty  happier  than  learning  how  to  do  some  new  thing.  She 
met  with  a  few  trials  and  discouragements,  to  be  sure.  In  two 
or  three  instances  the  toast  got  burned  to  a  cinder ;  and,  worse 
still,  she  one  day  broke  a  painted  teacup,  over  which  she  shed 
many  a  tear;  but,  as  True  never  thought  of  blaming  her  for  any- 
thing, she  forgot  her  misfortunes,  and  experience  made  her 
careful. 

Kate  McCarty  thought  h':r  the  smartest  child  in  the  world,  and 
would  sometimes  come  in  and  wash  up  the  floor,  or  do  some  other 
work,  which  recjuired  more  strength  or  skill  than  Gerty  possessed. 

Prompted  by  her  ambition  to  equal  Mrs.  Sullivan's  expectations 
and  still  more  by  her  desire  to  be  useful  to  True,  and  in  som: 
degree  manifest  her  love  to  him  by  her  labors,  Gerty  was  usually 
patient,  good-natured  and  obliging.  So  very  indulgent  was  True, 
that  he  rarely  indeed  laid  a  command  upon  the  child,  .^caving  her 
to  take  her  own  course,  and  have  her  own  way ;  but,  undisciplined 
she  was,  she  willingly  yielded  obedience  to  one  wlio  never 
thwarted  Lor,  and  the  old  man  seldom  saw  her  exhibit  in  bin 
presence  that  violent  t<;mper,  which,  when  roused,  knew  no  re- 
Btraint.  She  had  little  to  irritate  her  in  the  quiet  home  she  now 
enjoyed  ;  but  instances  sometimes  occurred  which  proved  that  the 
fire  of  her  little  spij  it  was  not  quenched,  or  its  evil  propensities 
extinguished. 

One  Sunday,  Gerty,  who  had  now  a  nice  little  hood  which  True 
aad  bought  for  her,  was  returning  with  Mr.  Cooper,  Mr.  Flint  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


from  the  afternoon  seryice  at  church.  The  two  old  i^ea 
^ere  engaged  in  one  of  their  lengthy  discussions,  and  tho  children, 
having  fallen  into  the  rear,  had  been  talking  earnestly  about  the 
church,  the  minister,  the  people  and  the  music,  a  1  of  which  were 
new  to  Ger*y,  and  greatly  excited  her  wonder  and  astonishment. 

As  they  drew  near  home,  Willie  remarked  how  dark  it  was 
growing  in  the  streets ;  and  then,  looking  down  at  Gerty,  whom 
«4e  held  by  the  hand,  he  said,  "  Gerty,  do  you  ever  go  out  with 
lincle  True,  and  see  him  light  the  lamps  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  did,"  said  Gerty,  "  since  the  first  night  I  came, 
1  Ve  wanted  to,  but  it 's  been  so  cold  Uncle  True  would  not  let 
me ;  he  said  I 'd  just  catch  the  fever  again." 

"It  won't  be  cold  this  evening,"  said  Willie;  "it'll  be  a 
beautiful  night ;  and,  if  Uncle  True 's  willing,  let 's  you  and  I  go 
with  him.  I 've  often  been,  and  it 's  first  rate ;  you  can  look  into 
(he  windows  and  see  folks  drinking  tea,  and  sitting  all  round  th^^ 
fire  in  the  parlors." 

"  And  I  like  to  see  him  light  those  great  lamps,"  interrupted 
Gerty  ;  "  they  make  it  look  so  bright  and  beautiful  a:ll  round.  I 
hope  he  '11  let  us  go ;  I  '11  ask  him ;  come,"  said  she,  pulling  him 
by  the  hand ;  "  let 's  catch  up  with  them  and  ask  him  now." 

*iNo,  —  wait;"  said  Willie;  "he's  busy  talking  with  grand- 
pa :  and  we  're  almost  home,  —  we  can  ask  him  then." 

He  could  hardly  restrain  her  impatience,  however ;  and,  as  sooc 
as  they  reached  the  gate,  she  suddenly  broke  away  from  him,  and, 
'^ushiiig  up  to  True,  made  known  her  request.  The  plan  was  wil- 
lingly acceded  to,  and  the  three  soon  started  on  the  rounds. 

For  some  time  Gerty's  attention  was  eo  wholly  engrossed  by  the- 
lamplighting  that  she  codd  see  and  enjoy  nothing  else.  But, 
ijs  hen  they  reached  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  came  in  sight  of 
D.  large  apothecary's  shop,  her  delight  knew  no  bounds.  The  bril- 
liant colors  displayed  in  the  windows,  now  foi  the  first  time  seen 
by  the  evening  light,  completely  captivated  her  fancy :  and  when  , 
Willie  told  her  that  his  master's  shop  was  very  similar,  sho 
thought  it  must  he  a  fine  place  to  spend  one's  life  in.  Then 
she  wondered  why  this  was  open  on  Sunday,  when  all  the  other 
stores  were  closed  ;  anc.  "^illi^,  stopping  to  explain  the  matter  t4f 


50 


THE  LAMPlii.'prHTEK. 


her,  and  to  gratify  her  curiosity  on  many  otier  pcintSj  found,  when 
they  again  started  on  their  way,  that  True  was  some  distance  in 
advance  of  them.  He  hurried  Gerty  along,  telling  her  that  they 
were  now  in  the  finest  street  they  should  pass  through,  and  that 
they  must  make  haste,  for  they  had  nearly  reached  the  house  ho 
most  wanted  her  to  see.  When  they  came  up  with  True,  he 
was  just  placing  his  ladder  against  a  post  opposite  a  fine  block  ol 
buildings.  Many  of  the  front  windows  were  shaded,  so  that  the 
children  could  not  see  in ;  some,  however,  either  had  no  curtains, 
or  they  had  not  yet  been  drawn.  In  one  parlor  there  was  a. 
pleasant  wood-fire,  around  which  a  group  were  gathered ;  and  hQVi. 
Gerty  would  fain  have  lingered.  Again,  in  another,  a  brilliant 
chandelier  was  lit,  and  though  the  room  was  vacant,  the  furniture 
was  so  showy,  and  the  whole  so  brilliant,  that  the  child  clapped 
her  hands  in  delight,  and  Willie  could  not  prevail  upon  her  iO 
leave  the  spot,  until  he  told  her  that  further  down  the  street  was 
another  house,  equally  attractive,  where  she  would  perhaps  see 
Bome  beautiful  children. 

"  How  do  you  know  there  '11  be  children  there  ^  "  said  she,  as 
they  walked  along, 

don't  knew,  certainly,"  said  W^illie;  "but  I  think  ther€ 
will.  They  used  always  to  be  up  at  the  wirdow,  when  I  camo 
with  Uncle  True,  last  winter." 

"  How  many  ?  "  asked  Gerty. 

"  Three,  I  believe ;  there  was  one  little  girl  with  such  beautiful 
curls,  and  such  a  sweet,  cunning  little  face.  She  looked  like  a 
wax  doll,  only  a  great  deal  prettier." 

"  0,  I  hope  we  shall  see  her ! "  said  Gerty,  dancing  along  on 
the  tops  of  her  toes,  so  full  was  she  of  excitement  and  pleasure. 

"  There  they  are  !  "  exclaimed  AVillie ;  "  all  three,  I  declare, 
^Tist  as  they  used  to  be !  " 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Gerty  ;  "  where  ?  " 

•*  Over  opposite,  in  the  great  stone  house.  Here,  let  '3  cross 
over.    It 's  muddy  ;  I  '11  carry  you." 

Willie  lifted  Certy  carefully  over  the  mud,  and  they  stood  i^ 
frAut  of  tl.e  hor*«»    True  had  not  yet  come  up.    It  was  hs  that  ih« 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


«1 


cln/dieu  were  watching  for.  Gerty  was  not  the  *^dy  cliil  I  that 
ioved  to  see  the  lamps  lit. 

h  was  now  quite  dark,  so  that  persons  in  a  light  room  could 
not  see  any  one  out  of  doors;  but  Willie  ond  Gerty  had  so 
much  the  better  chance  to  look  in.  It  was  indeed  a  line  mansion 
evidently  the  home  of  wealth.  A  clear  coal-fire,  and  a  bri^iit 
lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  shed  abroad  theii-  cheerful  blaze, 
Rich  carpets,  deeply-tinted  curtains,  pictures  in  gilded  frames 
and  huge  mirrors,  reflecting  the  whole  on  every  side,  gave  Gert^ 
her  first  impressions  of  luxurious  life.  There  was  an  air  of  comfor 
combined  with  all  this  elegance,  which  made  it  still  more  fascinat 
ing  to  the  child  of  poverty  and  want.  A  table  was  bountifulh 
spread  for  tea ;  the  cloth  of  snow-white  damask,  the  shining  plate 
above  all,  the  homc>like  hissing  tea-kettle,  had  a  most  invitir^ 
Jook.  A  gentleman  in  gay  slippers  was  in  an  easy-chair  by  the 
tire;  a  lady  in  a  gay  cap  was  superintending  a  servant-girl's 
arrangements  at  the  tea-table,  and  the  children  of  the  household, 
smiling  and  happy,  were  crowded  together  on  a  window-seat,  look- 
ing out,  as  we  have  said. 

They  were,  as  Willie  had  described  them,  sweet,  lovely-looking 
little  creatures ;  especially  a  girl,  about  the  same  age  as  Gerty,  the 
eldest  of  the  three.  Her  fair  hair  foil  in  long  ringlets  over  a  neck 
as  white  as  snow ;  she  had  blue  eyes,  a  cherub  face,  and  a  little 
round,  plump  figure.  Gerty's  admiration  and  rapture  were  such 
that  she  could  find  no  expression  for  them,  except  in  jumping 
up  and  down,  shouting,  laughing,  and  directing  Willie's  notice 
first  to  one  thing  and  then  another. 

"0,  Willie!  isn't  she  a  darling?  and  see  what  a  beautiful 
fire, —  what  a  splendid  lady  !  And  'ook!  look  at  the  father's 
shoes  !  ^Vhat  is  that  on  the  table  ?  I  guess  it 's  good  !  There 's 
a  big  looking-glass ;  and  0,  Willie!  an't  they  dear  little  hand- 
some children  ?  " 

In  all  her  exclamations,  she  began  and  ended  with  her  praisiNs 
of  the  children.  Willie  was  quite  satisfied  ;  Gerty  was  as  much 
pleased  as  he  had  expected  or  wished. 

True  now  came  up,  and,  as  his  torch-light  swept  along  the  side- 
uralk,  Gerty  and  Willie  became,  in  their  turn,  the  subjects  of 
ti 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


notice  and  conversation.  The  little  curl j-i. aired  girl  ehw  llicm 
and  pointed  them  out  to  the  notice  of  the  other  two  Though 
Gerty  could  not  know  what  they  were  saying,  she  did  not  likfl 
the  idea  of  being  stared  at  and  talked  about ;  and,  hiding  behind 
the  post-  she  would  not  move  or  look  up,  though  Willie  laughed 
at  her,  and  told  her  it  was  now  her  turn  to  be  looked  at.  When 
True  took  up  his  laddo>%  however,  and  started  to  move  olF,  sbo 
commenced  following  hnn  at  a  run,  so  as  to  escape  observation ; 
but  Willie  calling  to  her,  and  saying  that  the  children  were  gone 
from  the  window,  she  ran  back  as  quickly  to  have  one  more  look, 
and  was  just  in  time  to  see  them  taking  their  places  at  the  tea-table. 
The  next  instant  the  servant-girl  came  and  drew  down  the  window- 
Bhades.  Gerty  then  took  Willie's  hand  again,  and  they  hastened 
on  once  more  to  overtake  True. 

Should  n't  you  like  to  live  in  such  a  house  as  that,  Gerty  < 
said  Willie. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Gerty  ;  "  an't  it  splendid  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  just  such  a  house,"  said  Willie.  "  I  mean  to, 
one  of  these  days." 

*'  Where  will  you  get  it  ?  "  exclaimed  Gerty,  much  amazed  at 
BO  bold  a  declaration. 

"  0,  I  shall  work,  and  grow  rich,  and  buy  it.' 

"  You  can't ;  it  would  take  a  lot  o'  money.'^ 

*' I  know  it;  but  I  can  earn  a  lot,  and  I  mcun  to.  The  gen* 
tleman  that  lives  in  that  grand  house  was  a  poor  boy  when  he 
first  came  to  Boston ;  and  why  can't  one  poor  boy  get  rich,  as  weil 
as  another  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  suppose  he  got  so  much  money  ?  " 

*•  I  don't  know  how  he  did  ;  there  are  a  good  many  ways. 
Some  people  think  it 's  all  luck,  but  I  guess  it's  as  much  snxrt 
riess  as  anything.". 
Are  you  smart  ?  " 

Willie  laughed.  "An't  I?''  said  he.  "If  I  don  t  turn  Dm 
a  rich  man,  one  of  these  days,  you  may  say  I  an't." 

"  I  know  what  I  1  do,  if  I  was  rich,"  said  Gerty. 

"W^hatr  "  asked  Willie. 

*  First,  I 'd  buj/  a  great,  nice  chair,  for  Uncle  True  with 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEll. 


63 


en^hions  all  in  the  inside,  and  bright  flowers  on  it,  — just  exactly 
tike  that  one  the  gentleman  was  sitting  in  ;  and  next,  I 'd  have 
threat  big  lamps,  ever  so  many  all  in  a  bunch,  so 's  to  make  the 
room  as  light  —  as  light  as  it  could  be  !  " 

Seems  tc  me  you  're  mighty  fond  of  lights,  Gerty said 
Willie. 

"  I  be,"  said  the  child.  "  I  hate  old,  dark,  black  places  •  1 
like  stars,  and  sunshine,  and  fires,  and  Uncle  True's  torch  —  " 

And  I  like  bright  eyes!"  interrupted  Willie ;  yours  look 
just  like  stars,  they  shine  so  to-night.  An't  we  having  a  good 
time  ? " 

Yes,  real." 

And  so  they  went  on.  Gerty  jumping  and  dancing  along  the 
side-walk,  Willie  sharing  in  her  gayety  and  joy,  and  glorying 
in  the  responsibility  of  entertaining  and  at  the  same  time  pro- 
specting the  wild  little  creature.  They  talked  much  of  how  they 
would  spend  that  future  wealth  which,  in  their  buoyant  hopeful- 
ness, they  both  fully  calculated  upon  one  day  possessing;  for 
Gerty  had  caught  Willie's  spirit, 'and  she,  too,  meant  to  work  and 
grow  rich.  Willie  told  Gerty  of  the  many  plans  he  had  for  sur- 
rounding his  mother  and  grandfather,  and  even  herself  and  Uncle 
True,  with  every  comfort  and  luxury  he  had  overheard  or  dreamt 
of.  Among  other  things,  his  mother  was  to  wear  a  f^ay  cap,  like 
that  of  the  lady  they  had  seen  through  the  window;  and  at  this 
Gerty  had  a  great  laugh.  She  had  an  innate  perception  of  the 
fact  that  the  quiet,  demure  little  widow  would  be  ridiculous  in 
a  flowered  head-gear.  Good  taste  is  inborn,  and  Gerty  had  it 
in  her.  She  felt  that  Mrs.  Sullivan,  attired  in  anything  that 
?vas  not  simple,  neat  and  sober-looking,  would  altovether  lose 
her  identity.  Willie  had  no  selfish  schemes;  the  generous  boy 
Huggestcd  nothing  for  his  own  gratification ;  it  was  for  the  rost 
l.c  ineant  {o  labor,  and  in  and  through  them  that  ho  looked  for 
hi.s  reward.  Happy  children !  happy  as  children  only  can  bo  . 
What  do  they  want  of  wealth?  What  of  anything  material  and 
tangible,  inrrc  than  they  now  possess?  They  have  what  is 
worth  more  than  riches  or  fame.  They  are  full  of  childhood's 
fiiith  and  hope.    With  a  fancy  and  imagination  unchecked  by 


54  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

disa  PI  ointment,  they  arc  building  those  same  castles  that  so  man^f 
thousand  children  have  built  beforo,  — that  children  always  will  be 
building,  to  the  end  oT  time.  Far  off  in  the  distance,  they  see 
bright  things,  and  knew  not  what  myths  they  are.  High  up  they 
rise,  and  shine,  and  glitter ;  and  the  little  ones  fix  their  ryos  on 
then,  overlook  the  rough,  dark  places  that  lie  between,  sec  net 
the  perils  of  the  way,  suspect  not  the  gulfs  and  snares  into  which 
niany  are  destined  to  fall;  but,  confident  of  gaining  the  glorious 
gord,  they  set  forth  on  the  way  rejoicing.  Blessings  on  that 
childhood's  delusion,  if  such  it  be.  Undeceive  not  the  littk 
believers,  ye  wise  ones!  Check  not  that  God-given  hopefulness 
which  will,  perhaps,  in  its  airy  flight,  lift  them  in  safety  ovei 
many  a  rough  spot  in  life's  road.  It  lasts  not  long,  at  the  best 
then  check  it  not,  for  as  it  dies  out  the  way  grows  hard. 

One  source  of  the  light-heartedness  that  Willie  and  Gerty 
experienced  undoubtedly  lay  in  the  disinterestedness  and  gener- 
osity  of  the  emotion  which  occupied  them;  for,  in  the  plans  they 
formed,  neither  seemed  actuated  by  selfish  motives.  They  were 
both  filled  with  the  desire  to  contribute  to  the  comfort  of  their 
more  aged  friends.  ^  It  was  a  beautiful  spirit  of  grateful  love  which 
each  manifested,  —  a  spirit  in  a  great  degree  natural  to  both.  In 
Willie,  however,  it  had  been  so  fostered  by  pious  training  that 
it  partook  of  the  nature  of  a  principle;  while  in  Gerty  it  was  a 
mere  impulse;  and,  alas  for  poor  human  nature,  when  swayed  by 
its  own  passions  alone!  The  poor  little  girl  had  — as  who  haa 
not?  — other  less  pleasing  impulses ;  and,  if  the  former  needed 
encouraging  and  strengthening,  so  did  the  latter  require  lo  bo 
uprooted  and  destroyed. 

The}  had  reached  the  last  lamp-post  in  the  street,  and  now 
turned  another  corner ;  but  scarcely  had  they  gone  a  dozen  steps, 
before  Gerty  stopped  short,  and,  positively  refusing  to  proceed 
any  further,  pulled  hard  at  Willie's  hand,  and  tried  to  induce 
him  to  retrace  his  steps. 

What 's  the  matter,  Gerty  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  aie  you  tired  ?  " 

•  No,  0  no !  but  1  can't  go  any  further." 

•  Why  not  ?  *' 

0,  because  —  beca  use  —  "  and  here  Gorty  lowered  her  voice 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


61 


a.id,  p^fctivig  her  mouth  close  to  Willie's  ear,  whispered, —  '  there 
is  Nan  Grant's;  I  see  the  house !  I  had  forgot  Uncle  True  went 
there ;  and  I  can't  go  —  I 'm  afraid  !  " 

"Oho!"  said  \Villie,  drawing  himself  up  with  dignity,  1 
should  like  to  know  what  you  're  afraid  of,  when  I  'ni  with  you  !' 
Let  her  touch  you,  if  she  dares !  And  Uncle  True,  too !  —  1 
sJimdd  laugh."  Very  kindly  and  pleasantly  did  Willie  plead  with 
the  child,  telling  her  that  Nan  would  not  be  likely  to  see  ihem, 
but  that  pernaps  they  should  see  her  ;  and  that  was  just  what  ho 
wanted,  —  nothing  he  should  like  better.  Gerty's  fears  were 
easily  allayed.  She  was  not  naturally  timid  ;  it  was  only  the 
suddenness  of  the  shock  she  received,  on  recognizing  her  old  home, 
that  had  revived,  with  full  force,  her  dread  and  horror  of  Nan. 
It  needed  but  little  reasoning  to  assure  her  of  the  perfect  safety 
of  her  present  position;  and  her  fears  soon  gave  place  to  the 
desire  to  point  out  to  Willie  her  former  persecutor.  So,  by  the 
time  they  stood  in  front  of  the  house,  she  was  rather  hoping,  than 
otherwise,  to  catch  sight  of  Nan.  And  never  had  any  one  a 
fairer  chance  to  be  looked  at  than  Nan  at  that  moment.  She 
was  standing  opposite  the  window,  engaged  in  an  animated 
dispute  with  one  of  her  neighbors.  Her  countenance  expressed 
angry  excitement;  and,  an  ill-looking  woman  at  best,  her  face 
now  was  so  sufficient  an  index  to  her  character,  that  no  one  could 
see  her  thus  and  afterwards  question  her  right  to  the  title  of 
vixen,  virago,  scold,  or  anything  else  that  conveys  the  same  idea. 

"Which  is  she?"  said  Willie;  "the  tall  one,  swinging  the 
coffee-pot  in  her  hand?  I  guess  she  '11  break  the  handle  ofi",  if 
Bhe  don't  look  out." 

"  Yes,"  said  Gerty,  "  that 's  Nan.'* 

*  What 's  she  doing  ?  " 

"0,  she's  fighting  with  Miss  Birch;  she  dees  most  aiwaj 
with  somebody.    She  don't  see  us,  does  she  ?  " 

"  No,  she 's  too  busy.  Come,  don't  let  s  stop  ;  she 's  an  ugly* 
looking  woman,  just  as  I  knew  she  was  I 've  seen  enough  of 
aer,  and  I 'm  sure  you  have,  —  come." 

But  Gerty  lingered.  Courageous  in  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  safe  and  unseen,  she  was  attentively  gazing  at  Nan,  and  her 
6^ 


66 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


eyes  glistened,  not,  as  a  few  minutes  before,  with  the  healthy 
innocent  excitement  of  a  cheerful  heart,  but  with  the  fire  oi 
kindled  passion,  —  afire  that  Nan  had  kindled  long  ago,  which 
had  not  yet  gone  out,  and  which  the  siglit  of  Nan  had  now  revived 
in  fall  force.  Willie,  thinking  it  was  time  to  be  hurrying  home, 
and  perceiving  once  more  that  Mr.  Flint  and  his  torch  were  far 
down  the  street,  now  left  Geity,  and  started  himself,  as  an  expe- 
dient to  draw  her  on,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  "  Come,  Gerty  1 
can't  wait." 

Gerty  turned,  saw  that  he  was  going,  then,  quick  as  lightning, 
stooped,  and,  picking  up  a  stone  from  the  side-walk,  fiung  it  at 
the  window.  There  was  a  crash  of  broken  glass,  and  an  exclaii. 
ation  in  Nan's  well -known  voice ;  but  Gerty  was  not  there  to 
see  the  result  of  her  work.  The  instant  the  stone  had  left  her 
hand,  and  she  heard  the  crash,  her  fears  all  returned,  and,  flying 
past  Willie,  she  paused  not  until  she  was  safe  by  the  side  of  Trae. 
Willie  did  not  overtake  them  until  they  were  nearly  home,  and 
then  came  running  up,  exclaiming,  breathlessly,  "  Why,  Gerty,  do 
you  know  what  you  did  ?  —  You  broke  the  window  I  " 

Gerty  jerked  her  shoulders  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  Willie, 
pouted,  and  declared  that  was  what  she  meant  to  do. 

True  now  inquired  what  window;  and  Gerty  unhesitatingly 
acknowledged  what  she  had  done,  and  avowed  that  she  did  it  on 
purpose.  True  and  Willie  were  shocked  and  silent.  Gerty  was 
silent,  too,  for  the  rest  of  the  walk ;  there  were  clouds  on  her  face, 
and  she  felt  unhappy  in  her  little  heart.  She  did  not  understand 
herself,  or  her  own  sensations  :  we  may  not  say  how  far  she  was 
responsible  for  them,  but  this  much  is  certain,  her  face  alone 
betrayed  that,  as  evil  took  violent  possession  of  her  soul,  peace 
and  pleasantness  fled  away.  Poor  child  !  how  much  she  needs  to 
learn  the  truth  !  God  grant  that  the  inward  may  one  day  become 
as  dear  to  her  as  now  the  outward  light  ! 

Willie  bade  them  good-night  at  the  house-door,  and,  as  as^aal 
they  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  weeL 


OHAPTES  IX. 


Jut  I  -^ace  !  I  must  not  quarrel  with  the  will 
Of  hi^-hest  dispensation,  which  herein 
Haply  had  ends  above  my  reach  to  know. 

Milton  , 

Fatiie?,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  one  afternoon,  as  he  Tvas  prepjir- 
iwg  to  go  out  and  to  take  with  him  a  number  of  articles  which  he 
wanted  for  his  Saturday's  work  in  the  church,  why  don't  you 
get  little  Gerty  to  go  w^ith  you,  and  carry  some  of  your  things  ? 
You  can't  take  them  all  at  once ;  and  she 'd  like  to  go,  I  know." 

"She'd  only  be  in  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Cooper;  "I  can  take 
^hem  myself." 

But  when  he  had  swung  a  lantern  and  an  empty  coal-hod  on 
one  arm,  taken  a  little  hatchet  and  a  basket  of  kindlings  in  his 
hand,  and  hoisted  a  small  ladder  over  his  shoulder,  he  was  fain  to 
acknowledge  that  there  was  no  accommodation  for  his  hammer 
and  a  large  paper  of  nails. 

So  Mrs.  Sullivan  called  Gerty,  and  asked  her  to  go  to  the 
church  with  Mr.  Cooper,  and  help  him  carry  his  tools. 

Gerty  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  proposal,  and,  taking 
the  hammer  and  nails,  started  off  with  great  alacrity. 

When  they  reached  the  church,  the  old  sexton  took  them  from 
her  hands,  and,  telling  her  she  could  play  about  until  he  went 
home,  but  to  be  sure  and  do  no  mischief,  left  her  and  went  down 
Into  the  vestry-room  to  commence  there  his  operation  of  sweeping, 
ducting,  and  building  fires.  Gerty  was  thus  left  tc  her  owu 
amusement;  and  ample  amusement  she  found  it,  for  some  time,  to 
Wander  round  among  th?  ejinpty  aisles  and  pews,  and  examine 
tlosely  what,  hitherto,  she  had  only  viewed  from  a  corner  of  the 
gallery.     Tlieu  she  ascended  the  pulpit,  and  in  imaginatioii 


t)8 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


addreSvsed  a  large  audience.  She  was  just  beginning  to  gro\^ 
weary  and  restless,  however,  when  the  organist,  who  had  entered 
unpcrceived,  commenced  playing  some  low,  sweet  music ;  ana 
Gerty,  seating  herself  on  the  pulpit-stairs,  listened  with  the 
greatest  attention  and  pleasure.  He  had  not  played  long  before 
the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  aisle  opened,  and  a  couple  of 
visitorn  entered,  in  observing  whom  Gerty  was  soon  wholly  en- 
grossed. One  was  an  elderly  man,  dressed  like  a  clergyman^ 
short  and  spare,  with  hair  thin  and  gray,  forehead  high,  and  feat- 
ures rather  sharp ;  but,  though  a  plain  man,  remarkable  for  his 
calm  and  benignant  expression  of  countenance.  A  young  lady, 
apparently  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  was  leaning  on  his 
arm.  She  was  attired  with  great  simplicity,  wearing  a  dark -brown 
cloak,  and  a  bonnet  of  the  same  color,  relieved  by  some  light-blue 
ribbon  about  the  face.  The  only  article  of  her  dress  which  was 
either  rich  or  elegant  was  soma  beautiful  dark  fur,  fastened  at  her 
throat  with  a  costly  enamelled  slide.  She  was  somewhat  below 
the  middle  size,  but  had  a  pleasing  and  well-rounded  figure.  Her 
features  were  small  and  regular ;  her  complexion  clear,  though 
rather  pale ;  and  her  light-brown  hair  was  most  neatly  and  care- 
fully arranged.  She  never  lifted  her  ^^yes  as  she  walked  slowly 
up  the  aisle,  and  the  long  lashes  nearly  swept  her  cheek. 

The  two  approached  the  spot  where  Gerty  sat,  but  without 
perceiving  her.  "  I  am  glar  you  like  the  organ,"  said  the  gentle- 
man ;  "  I  '.m  not  much  of  a  judge  of  music,  myself,  but  they  say 
it  is  a  suporior  instrument,  and  that  Hermann  plays  it  remarkab'  r 
well." 

"  Nor  TS  my  opinion  of  any  value,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  for  I  ^avQ 
very  little  knowledge  of  music,  much  as  I  love  it.  But  that  sym- 
phony sounds  very  delightful  to  me ;  it  is  a  long  time  siuv  C  I  have 
heard  sudi  touching  strains;  or,  it  may  be,  it  is  partly  owing  to 
their  striking  so  sweetly  on  the  solemn  quiet  of  the  church,  this 
afternoon.  I  love  to  go  into  a  large  church  on  a  week-day.  It 
was  very  kind  in  you  to  call  for  me  this  afternoon.  How  camo 
70U  to  think  of  it  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  would  enjoy  it,  my  dear.  I  knew  Hermam 
tvouid  be  playing  about  this  time ;  and,  besides,  when  I  saw  ho^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


6S 


paleyoti  «rero  looking,  it  seemed  to  me  tlie  walk  would  do  jou 
good." 

*  It  has  done  me  good.  I  was  not  feeling  well,  and  the  clear 
cold  air  was  just  what  I  needed ;  I  knew  it  would  refresn  me  • 
but  Mrs.  Ellis  was  busy,  and  I  could  not,  you  know,  go  out  alone." 

"I  thought  I  should  find  Mr.  Cooper,  the  sexton,  here,"  said 
the  gentleman.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  him  about  the  light ;  the 
afternoons  are  so  short  now,  and  it  grows  dark  so  early,  I  must 
ask  him  to  open  more  of  the  blinds,  or  I  cannot  see  to  read  ray 
sermon  to-morrow.  Perhaps  he  is  in  the  vestry-room;  he  is 
always  somewhere  about  here  on  Saturday ;  I  think  I  had  better 
go  and  look  for  him." 

Just  then  Mr.  Cooper  entered  the  church,  and,  seeing  the  cler- 
gyman, came  up,  and,  after  receiving  his  directions  about  the 
light,  seemed  to  request  him  to  accom^pany  him  somewhere  ;  for 
the  gentleman  hesitated,  glanced  at  the  young  lady,  and  then 
Baid,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  to-day ;  and,  as  you  say  you  are 
at  leisure,  it  is  a  pity  I  should  not ;  but  I  don't  know  —  " 

Then,  turning  to  the  lady,  he  said,  Emily,  Mr.  Cooper  wants 
me  to  go  to  Mrs.  Glass'  with  him  ;  and  I  suppose  I  should  have 
to  be  absent  some  time.  Do  you  think  you  should  mind  waiting 
heru  until  I  return  ?  She  lives  in  the  next  street ;  but  I  may  be 
detained  for  it's  about  that  matter  of  tha  library-books  being 
BO  mischievously  defaced,  and  I  am  very  much  afraid  that  oldest 
boy  of  hers  had  something  to  do  with  it.  It  ought  to  be  inquired 
into  before  to-morrow,  and  I  can  hardly  walk  so  far  as  this  again 
to-night,  or  I  would  not  think  of  leaving  you." 

"01  go,  by  all  means,"  said  Emily ;  "  don't  mind  me  ;  it  will 
be  a  pleasure  to  sit  here  and  listen  to  the  music.  Mr.  H(  rmann's 
p  aving  i3  a  great  treat  to  me,  and  I  don't  care  how  long  I  wait ; 
BC  I  beg  you  won't  hurry  on  my  account,  Mr.  Arnold." 

Thus  assured,  Mr.  Arnold  concluded  to  go ;  and,  having  firsi 
led  the  Iddy  to  a  chair  beneath  the  pulpit,  went  away  v/ith  Mr,  - 
Cooper. 

All   ^is  time  Gerty  had  been  quite  unnoticed,  and  had  re- 
ained  \  ^ry  quiet  on  the  upper  stair,  a  little  secured  from  sigh* 
\    the  rulpit.    Hardly  had  the  doors  closed,  however,  with  a 


TO 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


loud  ba  :g,  when  the  child  got  up,  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs 
The  moment  she  moved,  the  lady,  whose  seat  was  very  near 
start  2d,  and  exclaimed,  rather  suddenly,  "  Who 's  that  ?  " 

G^rty  stood  quite  still,  and  made  no  reply.  Strangely  enough 
the  lady  did  not  look  up,  though  she  must  have  perceived  that  tht 
movement  was  above  her  head.  There  was  a  momert's  pause, 
and  then  Gerty  began  again  to  run  down  the  stairs.  This  time 
the  lady  sprung  up,  and,  stretching  out  her  hand,  said,  as  quickly 
as  before,  "Who  is  it?  " 

*•  Me/'  said  Gerty,  looking  up  in  the  lady's  face ;  "  it 's  only  me." 
Will  you  stop  and  speak  to  me  ?  "  said  the  lady. 

Gerty  not  only  stopped,  but  came  close  up  to  Emily's  chaif; 
irresistibly  attracted  by  the  music  of  the  sweetest  voice  she  had 
ever  heard.  The  lady  placed  her  hand  on  Gerty's  head,  drew 
her  towards  her,  and  said,  "  Who  are  you  ?  '* 

"Gerty." 

**  Gerty  who  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else  but  Gerty." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  your  other  name  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  got  any  other  name.'* 

*  How  came  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  with  Mr.  Oooper,  to  help  him  bring  his  things." 
"  And  he 's  left  you  here  to  wait  for  him,  and  I 'm  left  too ;  so 
mus^i:  take  care  of  each  other,  must  n't  we  ?  '* 
Gerty  laughed  at  this. 
"  Where  were  you  ?  —  On  the  stairs  ?  " 
«  Yes." 

"  Suppose  yoi:  sit  down  on  this  step  by  my  chair,  and  talk  \vlth 
me  a  little  while ;  I  want  to  see  if  we  can't  find  out  what  yomr 
Oilier  name  is.    Where  do  you  say  you  live  ?  " 

"  With  Uncle  True." 

"True?" 

"  Yes.  Mr,  True  Flint,  I  live  with  now.  He  took  me  homo 
to  his  house,  one  night,  when  Naa  Grant  put  me  out  on  the  side- 
walk." 

"  Why  !  are  you  that  little  girl  ?  Then  T 've  heard  of  you 
be^bro.    Mr.  Fliut  told  me  all  about  you." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEa 


7^ 


Do  you  know  my  Uncle  True  V 
Yes,  very  well." 

"  What 's  your  name  ?  " 
My  name  is  Emily  Graham," 

"0!  I  know,"  said  Gerty,  springing  suvidcnly  up,  ar^d  c^af 
ping  her  hands  together  ;  "  I  know.  You  asked  him  to  keep  mo 
he  said  so,-- 1  heard  him  say  so ;  and  you  gave  me  my  clothe* 
and  you  're  beautiful  ;  and  you  're  good ;  and  I  love  you !  0 
I  love  you  ever  so  much  ! 

As  Gerty  spoke  with  a  voice  full  of  excitement,  a  strange  loo^ 
passed  over  Miss  Graham's  face,  a  most  inquiring  and  restle-^ 
look,  as  if  the  tones  of  the  voice  had  vibrated  on  a  chord  of  her 
memory.  She  did  not  speak,  but,  passing  her  arm  round  the 
child's  waist,  drew  her  closer  to  her.  As  the  peculiar  expression 
passed  away  from  her  face,  and  her  features  assumed  their  usua 
calm  composure,  Gerty,  as  she  gazed  at  her  with  a  look  of  won- 
dor  (a  look  which  the  child  had  worn  during  the  whole  of  the  coa- 
versation),  exclaimed,  at  last,  "Are  you  going  to  sleep  ?  " 

"iSTo.  — Why?" 

"  Because  your  eyes  are  shut.' 

"  They  are  always  shut,  my  child." 

'  Always  shut !  —  What  for  ?  " 

"  I  am  blind,  Gerty  ;  I  can  see  nothing." 

"  Not  see  !  "  said  Gerty  ;  "  can't  you  see  anything  ?  Can't  jot? 
Bee  me  now  ?  " 

«  No,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

"  0  !  "  exclaimed  Gerty,  drawing  a  long  breath,  ''I'm  so 
glad:' 

"  Glad  !  "  said  Miss  Graham,  in  the  saddest  voice  that  ever  was 
heard. 

"  0,  yes ! '  said  Gerty,  "  so  glad  you  can't  see  me  I-^  because 
now,  perhaps,  you  '11  love  me." 

"  And  should  n't  I  love  you  if  I  saw  you  ? ''  said  Emily,  pass- 
ing her  hand  softly  and  slowly  over  the  cnild's  features. 

"  0,  no  !  "  answered  Gerty ;  "  I 'm  sc  ugly !  I 'm  glad  you 
ean't  see  how  ugly  I  am." 

But  just  think,  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  in  the  same  sad  voice. 


72 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


"how  would  you  feci  if  jou  could  not  see  the  light,  could  not  sea 
anything  in  the  world  ?  " 

Can't  you  see  the  sun,  and  the  stars,  and  the  S'ky,  and  th 
church  we  're  in  ?     Are  you  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"  In  the  dark,  all  the  time,  day  and  night  in  the  dark." 

Gerty  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears.  "  0  !  "  exclaimed  she, 
as  soon  as  she  could  find  voice  amid  her  sobs,  it 's  too  bad !  it  'ft 
too  bad !  " 

The  child's  grief  was  contagious ;  and,  for  the  first  time  for 
years,  Eaiily  wept  bitterly  for  her  blindness. 

It  was  for  but  a  few  moments,  however.  Quickly  recovering 
herself,  she  tried  to  compose  the  child  also,  saying,  "  Hush  !  hush ! 
don't  cry  ;  and  don't  say  it 's  too  bad  !  It 's  not  too  bad  ;  I  can 
bear  it  very  well.    I 'm  used  to  it,  and  am  quite  happy." 

"  /  should  n't  be  happy  in  the  dark ;  I  should  Jiate  to  be  \  " 
said  Gerty.  "  I  an't  glad  you  're  blind  ;  I 'm  real  sorry.  I  wish 
you  could  see  me  and  everything.  Can't  your  eyes  be  opened, 
any  way  ?  " 

No,"  said  Emily,  "  never ;  but  we  won't  talk  about  that  any 
more  ;  we  '11  talk  about  you.  I  want  to  know  what  makes  you 
think  yourself  so  very  ugly." 

"  ]3ecause  folks  say  that  I 'm  an  ugly  child,  and  that  nobody 
loves  ugly  children." 

"  Yes,  people  do,"  said  Emily,  "  love  ugly  children,  if  they  are 
good." 

"  But  I  an't  good,"  said  Gerty  ;  "  I 'm  real  bad  !  " 
"  But  you  can  he  good;'  said  Emily,  "  and  then  everybody  will 
love  you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  be  good  ?  " 
"  Yes-,  if  you  try." 
"  I  will  try." 

''I  hope  you  will,"  said  Emily.  "Mr  Flint  thinks  a  great 
deal  of  his  little  girl,  and  she  must  do  all  she  can  to  please  him." 

She  then  went  on  to  make  inquiries  concerning  Gerty's  former 
way  of  life,  and  became  so  much  interested  in  the  recital  of  the 
liitle  girl's  early  sorrows  and  trials,  that  she  was  unconscious  of 
the  flight  of  time,  and  quite  unobservant  of  the  departure  of  tho 


TttB  LAMPLIGHTER. 

Drganist,  who  Had  ceased  playing,  closed  his  instrument  and  gone 
away, 

Gerty  was  very  communicative.    Always  a  little  shy  of  stran- 
gers  at  first,  she  was  nevertheless  easily  won  by  kind  words ;  and, 
in  the  present  case,  the  sweet  voice  and  sympathetic  tones  of 
Emily  went  straight  to  her  heart.    Singularly  enough,  thou<^h 
her  whole  life  had  been  passed  among  the  poorer,  and  almost  the 
whole  of  it  among  the  lowest  class  of  people,  she  seemed  to  feel 
none  of  that  awe  and  constraint  which  might  be  supposed  natural, 
on  her  encountering,  for  the  first  time,  one  who,  born  and  bred 
amid  affluence  and  Wry,  showed  herself,  in  every  word  and 
motion,  a  lady  of  polished  mind  and  manners.    On  the  contrary, 
Gerty  clung  to  Emily  as  afi-ectionately,  and  stroked  her  soft  hoi 
with  as  much  freedom,  as  if  she  had  herself  been  born  in  a  pal- 
ace,  and  cradled  in  sable  fur.    Once  or  twice  she  took  Emily^s 
nicely.gloved  hand  between  both  her  own,  and  held  it  tight;  her 
favorite  mode  of  expressing  her  enthusiastic  warmth  of  gratitude 
and  admiration.    The  excitable  but  interesting  child  took  no  less 
strong  a  hold  upon  Miss  Graham's  feelings.    The  latter  saw  at 
once  h  ,w  totally  neglected  the  little  one  had  been,  and  the  im- 
portance of  her  being  educated  and  trained  with  care,  lest  eariy 
abuse,  acting  upon  an  impetuous  disposition,  should  prove  destruc- 
tive  to  a  nature  capable  of  the  best  attainments.    The  two  were 
Btill  entertaining  each  other,  and,  as  we  have  said,  unconscious  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  when  Mr.  Arnold  entered  the  church 
hastily,  and  somewhat  oat  of  breath.    As  he  came  up  the  aisle, 
when  he  was  yet  some  way  off  he  called  to  Emily,  sayino' 
"  Emily,  dear,  I 'm  afraid  you  thought  I  had  forgotten  you,"] 
have  been  gone  so  much  longer  than  I  intended.    Were  you  noi 
quite  tired  and  discouraged  ?  " 

"  Have  you  been  gune  long  ?  "  replied  Emily.    "  I  thouo-ht  it 
was  but  a  very  little  while  ;  I  have  had  company,  you  see  '° 

"What,  little  folks!"   said   Mr.   Arnold,  good-naturedly 
*  VVhere  did  this  little  body  come  from  "  " 


1 


-She  came  to  the  church  this  afternoon,  with  Mr,  Cooper 
Ls  n't  he  here  for  her  ?  " 


7 


^4  THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  , 

"  Cooper  ?— .  Nu :  he  went  straight  home,  after  he  left  me  ;  he  ^ 
probably  forgotten  all  about  the  child,    ^hat 's  to  be  done  ? " 
Can't  we  take  her  home  ?    Is  it  far  ?  " 

"  It  is  two  or  three  streets  from  here,  and  directly  out  of  cir 
way ;  altogether  too  far  for  you  to  walk." 

«  0  no,  it  won't  tire  me  ;  I 'm  quite  strong  now,  and  I  would  n't 
aut  know  she  was  safe  home,  on  any  account.  I'd  rather  get  a 
dttle  fatigued." 

If  Emily  could  but  have  seen  Gerty's  grateful  face  that  mo- 
ment,  she  would  indeed,  have  felt  repayed  for  almost  any  amovnt 
jf  weariness. 

So  they  went  home  with  Gerty,  and  Emily  kissed  Gerty  at  the 
pie ;  and  Gerty  was  a  happy  child  that  nifirht. 


CHAPTER 


X. 


Bj  the  strong  spirit's  discipline. 
By  the  fierce  wrong  forgiven. 
By  all  that  wrings  the  heart  of  sin, 
,  Is  woman  won  to  Heaven. 

N.  P.  Willis. 

As  may  be  s  ipposed,  the  blind  girl  did  not  forget  our  liltla 
Gsrtj.    Emily  Graham  never  forgot  the  sufferings,  (he  wants^ 
the  necessities,  of  others.    She  could  not  see  the  world  without, 
but  there  was  a  world  of  love  and  sympathy  within  her,  which 
manifested  itself  in  abundant  benevolence  and  charity,  both  of 
heart  and  deed.    She  lived  a  life  of  love.    She  loved  God  with 
her  whole  heart,  and  her  neighbor  as  herself    Her  own  great 
misfortunes  and  trials  could  not  be  helped,  and  were  borne  with- 
out  repining;  but  the  misfortunes  and  trials  of  others  became 
her  care,  the  alleviation  of  them  her  greatest  delight.  Emily 
was  never  weary  of  doing  good.    Many  a  blessing  was  called 
down  upon  her  head,  by  young  and  old,  for  kindness  past;  many 
a  call  was  made  upon  her  for  further  aid ;  and  to  the  call  of  none 
was  she  ever  deaf.    But  never  had  she  been  so  touched  as  now 
by  any  tale  of  sorrow.    Eeady  listener,  as  she  was,  to  the  story 
of  grief  and  trouble,  she  knew  how  many  children  were  born  into 
the  world  amid  poverty  and  privation;  how  many  were  abused 
neglected  and  forsaken;  so  that  Gerty's  expericnce^was  not  new 
to  her.    But  it  was  something  in  the  child  herself  tftat  ex- 
cited and  interested  Emily  in  an  unwonted  degree.    The  tones  of 
her  voice,  the  earnestness  and  pathos  with  which  she  spoke,  the 
eonfidmg  and  affectionate  manner  in  which  she  had  clung  to  her 
the  sudden  clasping  of  her  hand,  and,  finally,  her  vehement  out 
break  of  grief  when  she  became  conscious  of  Emily's  great  mis- 


76 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


fortune,  —  all  these  things  so  haunted  Miss  Graham's  recollection, 
that  she  dreamt  of  the  child  at  night,  and  thought  much  of  hei 
by  day.  She  could  not  account  to  herself  for  the  interest  she 
felt  in  the  little  stranger;  but  the  impulse  to  see  and  know  more 
of  her  was  irresistible,  and,  sending  for  True,  she  talked  a  long 
time  with  him  about  the  child. 

True  was  highly  gratified  by  Miss  Graham's  account  of  the 
meeting  in  the  church,  and  of  the  interest  the  little  girl  had  ia- 
spirod  in  one  for  whom  he  felt  the  greatest  admiration  and  respect. 
Gertj  had  previously  told  him  how  she  had  seen  Miss  G  raliara 
and  Lad  spoken  in  the  most  glowing  terms  of  the  dear  lady,  who 
was  so  kind  to  her,  and  brought  her  home  when  Mr.  ('oopcr  had 
forgotten  her,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  the  old  man  that  the 
fancy  was  mutual. 

Emily  asked  him  if  he  did  n't  intend  to  send  her  to  school. 
"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  he;  "she's  a  little  thing,  and 
an't  much  used  to  being  with  other  children.    Besides,  I  don't 
exactly  like  to  spare  her;  I  like  to  see  her  round," 

Emily  suggested  that  it  was  time  she  was  learning  to  read  and 
write ;  and  that  the  sooner  she  went  among  other  children,  the 
easier  it  would  be  to  her. 

"  Very  true.  Miss  Emily,  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Flint.  "  I 
dare  say  you  're  right ;  and,  if  you  think  she 'd  better  go,  I  '11  ask 
her,  and  see  what  she  says." 

"  I  would,  "  said  Emily.  "  I  think  she  might  enjoy  it,  besides 
improving  very  much ;  and,  about  her  clothes,  if  there  *s  any 
deficiency,  I  '11  — " 

"0,  no,  no.  Miss  Emily!"  interrupted  True ;-" there 's  n^ 
necessity ;  she 's  very  well  on 't  now,  tkanks  to  your  kindness." 

"  Well,"  said  Emily,  "  if  she  should  have  any  wants,  you  must 
apply  to  me9  You  know  we  adopted  her  jointly,  and  I  agreed 
to  do  anything  I  could  for  her ;  so  you  must  never  hesitate,—  it 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  serve  either  of  you.  Father  always  feels 
under  obligations  to  you,  Mr.  Flin">  for  faithful  service,  that  cost 
you  dear  in  the  end." 

*  0,  Miss  Emily,"  said  True,  "  Mr.  Graham  has  always  been 
my  best  friend ;  and  as  to  that  'ere  accident  that  happened  whea 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


77 


I  was  in  his  employ,  U  was  nobody's  fault  but  my  own  ;  it  iraa 

my  own  carelessness,  and  nobody's  else.'* 

"  I  know  you  say  so,"  said  Emily,  "  but  we  regretted  it  very 
much  ;  and  you  must  n't  forget  what  I  idl'jou,  that  I  shall  delight 
in  doing  anything  for  Gerty.  I  should  like  to  have  her  come  and 
see  me,  some  day,  if  she  would  like  to,  and  you  '11  let  her." 

"  Sartain,  sartain,"  said  True,  "  and  thank  you  kindly  ;  she  ^ 
admire  to  come." 

A  few  days  after,  Gerty  went  with  True  to  see  Miss  Graham  ; 
but  the  housekeeper,  whom  they  met  in  the  hall,  told  them  that 
she  was  ill  and  could  see  no  one.  So  tiiey  went  away  full  of  dis- 
appointment and  regret. 

It  proved  afterwards  that  Emily  took  a  severe  cold  the  day 
she  sat  so  long  in  the  church,  and  was  suffering  with  it  when  they 
called ;  but,  though  confined  to  her  room,  she  would  have  been 
glad  to  have  a  visit  from  Gerty,  and  was  sorry  and  grieved  that 
Mrs.  Ellis  should  have  sent  them  away  so  abruptly. 

One  Saturday  evening,  when  Willie  was  present,  True  broached 
the  subject  of  Gerty's  going  to  school.  Gerty  herself  was  very 
much  disgusted  with  the  idea ;  but  it  met  with  Willie's  warm  ap- 
probation, and  when  Gerty  learned  that  Miss  Graham  also  wished 
it,  she  consented,  though  rather  reluctantly,  to  begin  the  next 
week,  and  try  how  she  liked  it.  So,  on  the  following  Monday, 
Gerty  accompanied  True  to  one  of  the  primary  schools,  was  ad- 
xnitted,  and  her  education  commenced.  When  Willie  came  home 
the  next  Saturday,  he  rushed  into  True's  room,  full  of  eagerness 
to  hear  how  Gerty  liked  going  to  school.  He  found  her  seated  at 
the  table,  with  her  spelling-book ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  entered,  she 
exclaimed,  "  0,  Willie  !  Willie !  come  and  hear  me  read  ! " 

Her  performance  could  not  properly  be  called  reading.  She 
liad  not  got  beycnd  the  alphabet,  and  a  few  sylla^es  which  she 
had  learned  to  spell ;  but  Willie  bestowed  upon  her  much  well- 
merited  praise,  for  she  had  really  been  very  diligent.  He  was 
astonished  to  hear  that  Gerty  liked  going  to  school,  liiced  the 
teacher  ar.d  the  scholars,  and  had  a  fine  time  at  recess.  Ho  had 
filly  expected  that  she  would  dislike  the  whole  business,  ana  very 
probably  go  into  tantrums  about  it,  —  which  was  the  expression 
7# 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ne  used  to  denote  her  fits  of  ill-temper.  On  the  contrarj  every 
thing,  thus  far,  had  gone  well,  and  Gerty  had  never  locked  so 
animated  and  happy  as  she  did  this  evening.  Willie  promises  to 
assist  her  in  her  studies and  the  two  children's  literary  plana 
soon  became  as  high-flown  as  if  one  had  been  a  poet-laui-eate 
and  the  other  a  philosopher. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  all  appeared  to  go  on  smoothly.  Gerty 
went  regularly  to  school,  and  continued  to  make  rapid  progre.3S. 
Every  Saturday  Willie  heard  her  read  and  spell,  assisted,  pmised 
and  encouraged  her.  He  had,  however,  a  shrewd  suspicion  that, 
on  one  or  two  occasions,  she  had  come  near  having  a  brush  with 
some  large  girls,  for  whom  she  began  to  show  symptoms  of  dislike. 
Whatever  the  difficulty  originated  in,  it  soon  reached  a  crisis. 

One  day,  when  the  children  were  assembled  in  the  school- 
yard,  during  recess,  Gerty  caught  sight  of  True  in  his  working, 
dress,  just  passing  down  the  street,  with  his  ladder  and  lamp- 
filler.     Shouting  and  laughing,  she  bounded  out  of  the  yard, 
pursued  and  overtook  him.    She  came  back  in  a  few  minutes 
seeming  much  delighted  at  the  unexpected  rencounter,  and  ran 
into  the  yard  out  of  breath,  and  full  of  happy  excitement.  The 
troop  of  large  girls,  whom  Gerty  had  already  had  some  reason  to 
distrust,  had  been  observing  her,  and,  as  soon  as  she  retui'ned,  one 
of  them  called  out,  saying, 
"  Who 's  that  man  ?  " 
"  That 's  my  Uncle  True,"  said  Gerty. 
"  Your  what  ?  " 

"  My  uncle,  Mr.  Flint,  that  I  live  with." 

"  So  you  belong  to  him,  do  you  ? saiu  the  girl,  in  an  insolent 
tone  of  voice.    "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  said  Gerty,  fiercely. 

Ugh  !  ^fore  I 'd  live  with  him !  "  said  the  girl,  «  old 
Smutty  !  " 

^  The  others  caught  it  up,  and  the  laugh  and  epithet  Old  Smuttj 
circuited  freely  in  the  corner  of  the  yard  where  Gerty  was 
Etandinor. 

o 

Gcity  was  furious.  Her  eyes  glistened,  she  doubled  her  littk 
fct,  and,  without  hesitation,  came  down  in  battle  upon  the  crowd 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


79 


Hut  tKoy  were  tol  many  for  her,  and,  helpless  as  she  was  with 
passion,  they  drove  her  out  of  the  yard.  She  started  for  home  on 
a  full  nm,  screaming  with  all  her  might. 

As  she  flaw  along  the  side- walk,  she  brushed  roughly  against  a 
tall  and  rather  stifi'-looking  lady,  who  was  walking  slowly  in  the 
same  direction,  with  anorther  and  much  smaller  person  leaning  on 
her  arm. 

"  Bless  me !  "  said  the  tall  lady,  who  had  almost  lost  her  equi- 
librium from  her  fright  and  the  suddenness  of  the  shock.  "  "Why, 
you  horrid  little  creature  !  "  As  she  spoke,  she  grasped  Gerty  ly 
the  shoulder,  and,  before  the  child  could  break  away,  succeeded  in 
giving  her  a  slight  shake.  This  served  to  increase  Gerty 's  anger,  and, 
her  speed  gaining  in  proportion,  it  was  but  a  few  minutes  before 
she  was  at  home,  crouched  in  a  corner  of  True's  room  behind  the 
6ed,  her  face  to  the  wall,  and,  as  usual,  on  such  occasions,  covered 
with  both  her  hands.  Here  she  was  free  to  cry  as  loud  as  she 
pleased ;  for  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  gone  out,  and  there  was  no  one  in 
the  house  to  hear  her,  —  a  privilege,  indeed,  of  which  she  fully 
availed  herself. 

But  she  had  not  had  time  to  indulge  long  in  her  tantrum,  when 
the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  yard  closed  with  a  bang,  and  footsteps 
were  heard  coming  towards  Mr.  Flint's  door.  Gerty's  attention 
was  arrested,  for  she  knew  by  the  sound  that  it  was  the  step  of  a 
stranger  who  was  approaching.  With  a  strong  efibrt,  she  suc- 
ceeded, after  one  or  two  convulsive  sobs,  in  so  far  controlling  her 
self  as  to  keep  quiet.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  but  Gerty 
did  not  reply  to  it,  remaining  in  her  position  concealed  behind  the 
Ded.  The  knock  was  not  repeated,  but  the  stranger  lifted  thg 
ktch  and  walked  in. 

There  does  n't  seem  to  be  any  one  at  home,"  said  a  female 
voice  ;  "  what  a  pity !  "  ^ 

"  Is  n't  there  ?   I 'm  sorry,"  replied  another,  in  the  sweet 
musical  tones  of  Miss  Graham. 

Gerty  knew  the  voice,  at  once 

"  I  thought  you 'd  better  not  come  here  yourself,"  rejoined  the 
first  speaker,  who  was  no  other  than  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  identical  lady 
Whcm  Ge-ty  had  so  frightened  and  disconcerted. 


80 


THE  LAMPLIGHIER. 


0,  I  dorx't  regret  coming,"  said  Emily     "  You  can  l=»av<v  r^^^ 
Iiere  while  jou  go  to  your  sister's,  and  very  'ikely  Mr. 
the  little  girl  will  come  home  in  the  mean  time." 

"  It  don't  become  you,  Miss  Emily,  to  be  carried  round  every- 
where, and  left,  like  an  expressman's  parcel,  till  called  for.  You 
caught  a  horrid  cold,  that  you  're  hardly  well  of  now,  waiting 
there  in  the  church  for  the  minister ;  and  Mr.  Graham  will  be 
finding  fault  next." 

"0,  no,  Mrs.  Ellis ;  it 's  very  comfortable  here ;  the  church 
must  have  been  damp,  I  think.  Come,  put  me  in  Mr.  Flint's 
arm-chair,  and  I  can  make  myself  quite  contented." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  "  I  '11  make  up  a  good  fire 
m  this  stove  before  1  go." 

As  she  spoke,  the  energetic  housekeeper  seized  the  poker,  and, 
after  stirring  up  the  coals,  and  making  free  with  all  True's  kin- 
dling-wood, waited  long  enough  to  hear  the  roaring  and  see  the 
blaze ;  and  then,  having  laid  aside  Emily's  cloak  and  boa,  went 
away  with  the  same  firm,  steady  step  with  which  she  had  come, 
and  which  had  so  overpowered  Emily's  noiseless  tread,  that  Gerty 
had  only  anticipated  the  arrival  of  a  single  guest.  As  soon  as 
Gerty  knew,  by  the  swinging  of  the  gate,  that  Mrs.  Ellis  had 
really  departed,  she  suspended  her  effort  at  self-control,  and,  with 
a  deep-drawn  sigh,  gasped  out,  "0,  dear  !    0,  dear  I  " 

"  Why,  Gerty  !  "  exclaimed  Emily,  "  is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  sobbed  Gerty. 

"  Come  here." 

The  child  waited  no  second  bidding,  but,  starting  up,  ran, 
threw  herself  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  Emily,  buried  her  face  in 
the  blind  girl's  lap,  and  once  more  commenced  crying  aloud.  By 
this  time  her  whole  frame  was  tremblino;  with  ao!;itaticn. 

"  Why,  Garty  !  "  said  Emily  ;  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

But  Gerty  could  not  reply ;  and  Emily,  finding  this  to  be  the 
^ase,  desisted  from  her  inquiries  until  the  little  one  should  bo 
somewhat  composed.  She  lifted  Gerty  up  into  her  lap,  laid  her 
head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  with  her  own  handkerchief  wiped  the 
tears  from  her  face. 

Uer  soothing  words  and  caresses  soon  quieted  the  child ;  and 


THI.  LAM_'LIGHTER. 


8.1 


when  she  was  oa  :a,  Emily,  instead  of  recurring  at  once  to  the 
cause  of  her  grief,  very  judiciously  questioned  her  upon  other 
topics.    At  last,  however,  she  asked  hei  if  she  went  to  school. 

"I  hav3  heen^"^  said  Gerty,  raising  her  head  suddenly  from 
Emily's  shoulder  ;  "  but  I  won't  ever  go  again !  " 

"What!— Why  not?" 

"  Because,"  said  Gerty,  angrily,  "  I  hate  those  girls ;  ye^3,  1 
hate  'em  !  ugly  things  !  " 

"  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  "  don't  say  that ;  you  should  n't  hate 
anybody." 

"  Why  should  n't  I  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"  Because  it 's  wrong." 

"  No,  it 's  not  wrong  ;  1  say  it  is  n't  I  "  said  Gerty ;  "  and  I  do 
hate  'em  ;  and  I  hate  Nan  Grant,  and  I  always  shall !  Don't  you 
hate  anybody  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Emily ;  ''1  don't:' 

"  Did  anybody  ever  drown  your  kitten  ?  Did  anybody  ever 
call  your  father  Old  Smutty  ?  "  said  Gerty.  "  If  they  had,  I  know 
you 'd  hate  'em,  just  as  I  do." 

"  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  solemnly,    did  n't  you  tell  me,  the  othei' 
day,  that  you  were  a  naughty  child,  but  that  you  wished  to  be 
good,  and  would  try  ?  " 
Yes,"  said  Gerty. 

"  If  you  wish  to  become  good  and  be  forgiven,  you  must  for- 
give others." 

Gerty  said  nothing. 

"  Do  you  not  wish  God  to  forgive  and  love  you  ? " 

"  God,  that  lives  in  heaven, — that  made  the  stars  ?"  said  Gerty 

"  Yes." 

"  Will  he  love  rre,  and  let  me  some  time  go  to  heaven  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  try  to  be  good,  and  love  everybody." 

"  Miss  Emily,"  said  Gerty,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  I  cun 
dc  it,  —  so  I  s'pose  I  can't  go," 

Jusi  at  this  moiaent  a  tear  fell  upon  Gerty's  foreheai  She 
looked  thoughtful!)  up  in  Emily's  face,  then  said, 

"  Dear  Miss  Emily,  ai  e  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  vam  trying  to  " 


mE  LAMPLIGHTEP 


"  1  shoald  lik:  to  gv  ith  jou,"  said  Gertj,  shaking  lier  head 
meditatively. 

Still  Emily  did  not  sp,.ak.  She  left  the  child  to  the  working 
of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Miss  Emily,"  said  Gerty,  at  last,  in  the  lowest  whisper,  "  I 
mextn  to  try,  but  I  don't  think  I  com^ 

"  God  bless  3  ju,  and  help  you,  my  child  !  "  said  Emily,  layinfi 
hor  hand  upon  Gerty's  head. 

For  fifteen  minutes,  or  more,  not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either. 
Gerty  lay  perfectly  still  in  Emily's  lap.  By  and  by  the  latter 
perceived,  by  the  child's  breathing,  that,  worn  out  with  the  fever 
and  excitement  of  all  she  had  gone  through,  she  had  dropped  into 
a  quiet  sleep.  When  Mrs.  Ellis  returned,  Emily  pointed  to  the 
sleeping  child,  and  asked  her  to  place  her  on  the  bed.  She  did 
so,  wonderingly ;  and  then,  turning  to  Emily,  exclaimed,  Upon 
my  word.  Miss  Emily,  that 's  the  same  rude,  bawling  little  creat- 
ure, that  came  so  near  being  the  death  of  us !  "  Emily  smiled 
at  the  idea  of  a  child  eight  years  old  overthrowing  and  anni- 
hilating a  woman  of  Mrs.  Ellis'  inches,  but  said  nothing. 

Why  did  Emily  weep  long  that  night,  as  she  recalled  the  soeno 
of  the  morning  ?  Why  did  she,  on  bended  knee,  wrestlo  so 
vehemently  with  a  mighty  sorrow  ?  Why  did  she  pray  so  ear- 
nestly for  new  strength  and  heavenly  aid  ?  Why  did  she  so 
beseechingly  ask  of  God  his  blessing  on  the  little  child  ?  Because 
she  had  felt,  in  many  a  year  of  darkness  and  bereavement,  in 
many  an  hour  of  fearful  struggle,  in  many  a  pang  of  despair, 
how  a  temper  like  that  which  Gerty  had  this  day  shown  might, 
in  one  moment  of  its  fearful  reign,  cast  a  blight  upon  a  lifetime, 
and  write  in  fearful  line?  the  mournful  requiem  of  earthly  joy. 
And  so  she  prayed  to  Heaven  that  night  for  strength  to  keep  her 
firm  resolve,  and  aid  in  fulfilling  her  undying  purpose,  to  cure 
thatehiU  )f  her  dark  infijmitv. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


Her  inluence  breathes,  and  bids  the  blighted  heait 

To  life  and  hope  from  desolation  start.  HsiCAHS. 

The  next  Sabbath  afternoon  found  Gerty  seated  on  a  cricket 
in  front  of  a  pleasant  little  wood-fire  in  Emily's  own  room.  Hei 
large  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Emily's  face,  which  always  seemed,  in 
i  some  unaccountable  way,  to  fascinate  the  little  girl ;  so  atten- 
tively did  she  watch  the  play  of  the  features  in  a  countenance 
the  charm  of  which  many  an  older  person  than  Gerty  had  felt, 
but  tried  in  vain  to  describe.  It  was  not  beauty,  —  at  least,  not 
brilliant  beauty,  —  for  that  Emily  had  not  possessed,  even  when 
hor  face  was  illumined,  as  it  had  once  been,  by  beautiful  hazel 
eyes ;  nor  was  it  the  effect  of  what  is  usually  termed  fascination 
of  manner,  for  Emily's  manner  and  voice  were  both  so  soft  and 
unassuming  that  they  never  took  the  fancy  by  storm.  Tt  was  not 
compassion  for  her  blindness,  though  so  great  a  misfortune  might 
well,  and  always  did,  excite  the  warmest  sympathy.  But  it  was 
hard  to  realize  that  Emily  was  blind.  It  was  a  fai.t  aever  forced 
upon  her  friends'  recollection  by  any  repining  or  selfish  indul- 
gence on  the  part  of  the  suff'erer  ;  and,  as  there  was  nothing 
painful  in  the  appearance  of  her  closed  lids,  shaded  and  fringed 
as  they  were  by  her  long  and  heavy  eyelashes,  it  was  not  unusual 
for  those  immediately  about  her  to  converse  upon  things  which 
could  only  be  evident  to  the  sense  of  sight,  and  even  direct  her 
attention  to  one  object  and  another,  quite  forgetting,  for  the 
moment,  her  sad  deprivation ;  and  Emily  never  sighed,  never 
Boomed  hurt  at  their  want  of  consideration,  or  showed  any  lack 
of  interest  in  objects  thus  shut  from  her  gaze  ;  but,  apparently 
quite  satisfied  with  the  descriptions  she  heard,  or  the  picturea 
which  she  formed  in  her  imagination,  would  talk  pleasantly  and 
f>laylully  upon  whatever  was  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  her  con? 


THE  LAyrLIGJlTKK. 


panions.  Some  said  that  Emily  had  tne  sweetest  moufh  in  tba 
world,  and  they  loved  to  watch  its  ever-varying  expression. 
Some  said  her  chief  attraction  lay  in  a  small  dimple  in  her  right 
cheek;  others  (and  these  were  young  girls  who  wanted  to  bo 
charming  themselves)  remarked  that  if  they  thought  they  could 
make  their  hair  wa-'e  like  Emily*s,  they braid  it  up  every  night: 
it  was  50  becoming  !  But  the  chosen  few,  who  were  capable,  through 
their  own  spirituality,  of  understanding  and  appreciating  Emily's 
character,  —  the  few,  the  very  few,  who  had  known  her  struggles, 
and  had  witnessed  her  triumphs,  —  had  they  undertaken  to  expres^i 
their  belief  concerning  the  source  whence  she  derived  that  po\rcr 
by  which  her  face  and  voice  stole  into  the  hearts  of  young  Lud 
old,  and  won  their  love  and  admiration,  they  would  have  said,  as 
G-'3rty  did,  when  she  sat  gazing  so  earnestly  at  Emily  on  Ine 
very  Sunday  afternoon  of  which  we  speak,  Miss  Emily,  I  ki^ow 
you 've  been  with  God." 

Gerty  was  certainly  a  strange  child.  All  untaught  as  she  was, 
she  had  felt  Emily's  entire  superiority  to  any  being  she  had  ever 
seen  before ;  and,  yielding  to  that  belief  in  her  belonging  to  aa 
order  above  humanity,  she  reposed  im.plicit  confidence  in  what 
she  told  her,  allowed  herself  to  be  guided  and  influenced  by  one 
whom  she  felt  loved  her  and  sought  only  her  good ;  and,  as  she 
sat  at  her  feet  and  listened  to  her  gentle  voice  while  she  gave  hei 
her  first  lesson  upon  the  distinction  between  right  and  wrong, 
Emily,  though  she  could  not  see  the  little  thoughtful  face  that 
was  looking  up  at  her,  knew,  by  the  earnest  attention  she  had 
gained,  by  the  child's  perfect  stillness,  and,  still  more,  by  the 
little  hand  which  had  sought  hers,  and  now  held  it  tight,  that 
one  great  point  was  won. 

Gorty  had  not  been  to  school  since  the  day  of  her  battle  tvith 
the  great  girls.  VII  True's  persuasions  had  failed,  and  she  would 
not  go.  But  Emily  understood  the  child's  nature  so  much  better 
than  True  did,  and  urged  upon  her  so  much  more  forcible  motives 
chan  the  old  man  had  thought  of  employing,  that  she  succeeded 
where  had  failed.  Gerty  considered  that  her  old  friend  had 
been  insulted,  and  that  was  the  chief  cause  of  indignation  with 
ber ;  but  Emily  placed  the  matter  in  a  difi"erent  light,  and,  con 


THE  L\MPL1GHTER. 


85 


rincing  her  at  la»t  that,  if  she  loved  Uncle  1  lue,  she  weald  ehow 
it  much  better  by  obeying  his  wishes  than  by  retaining  her  foolish 
anger,  she  finally  obtained  Gerty's  promise  that  she  vrould  go  to 
school  the  next  morning.  She  also  advised  her  how  to  conduct 
herself  towards  the  scholars  whom  she  so  much  disliked,  and 
gave  her  some  simple  directions  with  regard  to  her  behavior  the 
next  day ;  telling  her  that  perhaps  Mr.  Flint  would  go  with  her, 
make  suitable  apologies  to  the  teacher  for  her  absence,  and  that, 
in  such  case,  she  would  have  no  further  trouble. 

The  next  morning  True,  much  pleased  thsit  Gerty's  repugnance 
*-o  the  school  was  at  last  overcome,  went  with  her,  and,  inquiring 
for  the  teacher  at  the  door,  stated  the  case  to  her  in  his  blunt, 
honest  way,  and  then  left  Gerty  in  her  special  charge. 

Miss  Browne,  who  was  a  young  woman  of  good  sense  and  good 
feelings  J  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light ;  and,  taking  an  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  privately  to  the  girls  who  had  excited  Gerty'g 
temper  by  their  rudeness,  made  them  feel  so  ashamed  of  their 
conduct,  that  they  no  longer  molested  the  child  ;  and,  as  Gerty 
soon  after  made  friends  with  one  or  two  quiet  children  of  her 
own  age,  with  whom  she  played  in  recess,  she  got  into  no  more 
such  difficulties. 

The  winter  passed  away.  The  pleasant,  sunny  spring  daya 
came,  days  when  Gerty  could  sit  at  open  windows,  or  on  the 
door-step,  when  birds  sang  in  the  morning  among  the  branches  of 
an  old  locust-tree  that  grew  in  the  narrow  yard,  and  the  sun  at 
evening  threw  bright  rays  across  True's  great  room,  and  Gerty 
could  see  to  read  almost  until  bed-time.  She  had  been  to  school 
steadily  all  winter,  and  had  improved  as  rapidly  as  most  intcili- 
gent  children  do,  who  are  first  given  the  opportunity  to  learn  at 
an  age  when,  full  of  ambition,  the  mind  is  most  fertile  acd 
capable  of  progress.  She  was  looking  healthy  and  well ;  her 
clothes  were  clean  and  neat,  for  her  wardrobe  was  well  stocked 
by  Emily,  and  the  care  of  it  superintended  by  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
She  was  bright  and  happy  too,  and  tripped  round  the  house  s(; 
joyously  and  lightly,  ihat  True  declared  his  birdie  knew  not  what 
it  was  to  touch  her  heel  to  the  ground,  but  flew  about  on  the  ti]^f 
of  her  toes. 

8 


80 


TUE  LA.TIPLiaH  TEK 


The  old  man  could  not  have  loved  the  .ittle  adoptel  m:  lettui 
nad  she  been  his  own  child ;  and,  as  he  sat  by  her  side  on  the 
wide  settle,  which,  wtien  the  wa^m  weather  came,  was  moved 
outside  the  door,  and  listened  patiently  and  attentively  while  she 
read  aloud  to  him  story  after  story,  of  little  girls  who  never  told 
lies,  boys  who  always  obeyed  their  parents,  or,  more  frequently 
still,  of  he  child  who  knew  how  to  keep  her  temper,  t^ey  seemed, 
as  indeed  they  were,  most  suitable  companions  tor  each  other. 
The  old  man's  interest  in  the  story-books,  which  were  provided  by 
Emily,  and  read  and  re-read  by  Gerty,  was  as  keen  and  unflagging 
as  if  he  had  been  a  child  himself ;  and  he  would  sit  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  hearing  the  simple  stories,  laughing  when  Gerty 
laughed,  sympathizing  as  fully  and  heartily  as  she  did  in  the  sor- 
rows of  her  little  heroines,  and  rejoicing  with  her  in  the  final 
triumph  of  truth,  obedience  and  patience. 

Emily  knew  the  weight  that  such  tales  often  carried  with  them 
to  the  hearts  of  children,  and  most  carefully  and  judiciously  did 
she  select  books  for  Gerty.  Gerty 's  life  was  now  as  happy  and 
prosperous  as  it  had  once  been  wretched  and  miserable.  Six 
months  before,  she  had  felt  herself  all  alone,  unloved,  uncared-for. 
Now  she  had  many  friends,  and  knew  what  it  was  to  be  thought 
of,  provided  for,  and  caressed.  All  the  days  in  the  week  were 
joyous ;  but  Saturday  and  Sunday  were  marked  days  with  her,  as 
rrell  as  with  Mrs.  Sullivan  ;  for  Saturday  brought  Willie  home 
to  hear  her  recite  her  lessons,  walk,  laugh  and  play,  with  her.  He 
had  so  many  pleasant  things  to  tell,  he  was  so  full  of  life  and  ani- 
mation, so  ready  to  enter  into  all  her  plans,  and  in  every  way 
promote  her  amusement,  that  on  Monday  morning  she  began  to 
count  the  days  until  Saturday  would  come  again.  The*^,  if  any- 
thing went  wrong  or  got  out  of  order,  —  if  the  old  clock  stopped,  or 
her  toys  got  broken,  or,  worse  still,  if  her  lessons  troubled,  or  any 
little  childish  grief  oppressed  her,  —  Willie  knew  how  to  put 
everything  right,  to  help  her  out  of  every  difficulty.  So  Willie'.'i 
mother  looked  not  more  anxiously  for  his  coming  than  Gerty  did. 

Sunday  afternoon  Gerty  always  spent  with  Emily,  in  Emily's 
own  room,  listening  to  her  sweet  voice,  and,  half-unconsciously 
imbibing  a  portion  of  her  sweet  spirit.    Emily  preached  uo  ser 


THE  1.AMPL1GHTER. 


8" 


mons  nor  did  sKe  ;veary  the  child  with  exhortation;,  and  preccpta. 
Indeed,  it  did  not  occur  to  Gertj  that  she  went  there  to  be  taught 
anything ;  but  simply  and  gradually  the  blind  girl  imparted  ligh'. 
tc  the  child's  dark  soul,  and  the  truths  that  make  for  virtue,  the 
V-ssons  that  are  divine,  were  implanted  in  her  so  naturally,  and 
yet  so  forcibly,  that  she  realized  not  the  work  that  was  going  on* 
but  long  after,  -when  goodness  had  grown  strong  withic  her 
and  her  first  feeble  resistance  of  evil,  her  first  attempts  to  keep 
her  childish  resolves,  had  matured  into  deeply-rooted  principles, 
and  confirmed  habits  of  right,  —  she  felt,  as  she  looked  back  into 
the  past,  that  on  those  blessed  Sabbaths,  sitting  on  her  cricket  at 
Emily's  knee,  she  had  received  into  her  heart  the  first  beams  of 
that  immortal  light  that  never  could  be  quenched. 

Thus  her  silent  prayer  was  answered.  God  had  chosen  an 
earthly  messenger  to  lead  his  child  into  everlasting  peace ;  a  mes- 
senger from  whose  closed  eyes  the  world's  paths  were  all  shut 
out,  but  who  had  been  so  long  treading  the  heavenly  road,  that  it 
was  now  familiar  ground.  Who  so  fit  to  guide  the  little  one  as 
she,  who  with  patience  had  learned  the  way  ?  Who  so  well  able 
to  cast  light  upon  the  darkness  of  another  soul  as  she,  to  whose 
own  darkened  life  God  had  lent  a  torch  divine  ? 

It  was  a  grievous  trial  to  Gerty,  about  this  time,  to  leain  that 
the  Grahams  were  soon-  going  into  the  country  for  the  summer. 
Mr.  Graham  owned  a  pleasant  residence  about  six  miles  from 
Boston,  to  which  he  invariably  resorted  as  soon  as  the  planting- 
season  commenced ;  for,  though  devoted  to  business  during  the 
winter,  he  had  of  late  years  allowed  himself  much  relaxation 
from  his  counting-room  in  the  summer  ;  and  legers  and  day-book? 
were  now  soon  to  be  supplanted,  in  his  estimation,  by  the  labor  ,, 
and  delights  of  gardening.  Emily  promised  Gerty,  however,  th^  b 
she  shuuld  come  and  pass  a  day  with  her  when  the  weather  wati 
fine  ;  a  visit  which  Gerty  enjoyed  three  months  in  anticipation, 
and  more  than  three  in  retrospection. 

It  was  some  compensation  for  Emi)y's  absence  that,  as  the  days 
became  long,  Willie  was  frequently  able  to  leave  the  shop  and 
come  home  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening ;  and  Willie,  as  we 
have  said,  always  knew  how  to  comfort  Gerty,  whatever  the 
trouble  might  be. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


"  Let  every  minute,  as  it  springs, 

Convey  fresh  knowledge  on  its  wings  ; 
Let  every  minute,  as  it  flies, 
Record  thee  good,  as  well  as  wise." 

COTTOK. 

ir  vias  one  pleasant  evening  in  the  latter  part  of  April,  that 
llerty,  who  had  been  to  see  Miss  Graham  and  bid  her  good-by, 
before  her  departure  for  the  country,  stood  at  the  back  part  of 
the  yard  weeping  bitterly.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  book  and  a 
new  slate,  Emily  s  parting  gifts ;  but  she  had  not  removed  the 
wrapper  from  the  one,  and  the  other  was  quite  besmeared  with 
tears.  She  was  so  full  of  grief  at  the  parting  (with  her,  the 
first  of  those  many  sad  partings  life  is  so  full  of),  that-  she  did 
not  hear  any  one  approach,  and  was  unconscious  of  any  one'a 
presence,  until  a  hand  was  placed  upon  each  of  her  shoulders ; 
and,  as  she  turned  round,  she  found  herself  encircled  by  Willie's 
arms,  and  face  to  face  with  Willie's  sunny  countenance. 

u  Why,  Gerty  !  "  said  he,  "  this  is  no  kind  of  a  welcome,  when 
I've  come  home  on  a  week-night,  to  stay  with  you  all  the  eve 
ning.  Mother  and  grandfather  are  both  gone  out  somewhere, 
and  then,  when  I  come  to  look  for  you,  you  're  crying  so  I  can't 
see  your  face  through  such  oceans  of  tears.  Come,  come  !  dn 
leave  off ;  you  don't  know  how  shockingly  you  look  !  " 

"  Willie !  "  sobbed  she,  "  do  you  know  Miss  Emily 's  gone  ?  " 

"  Gone  where  ?  " 

*'  Way  off,  six  miles,  to    ay  all  summer !  " 
But  Willia  only  laughed     "  Six  miles  !  "  said  he    "  that  s  q 
terribh  way,  certainly  !  " 

"  Bat  I  can 't  see  her  an;*  more  !  "  said  Gerty. 
Yo/i  can  r>ee  her  nj  xt  winter,"  rejoiued  WiUie, 


THE  LAMPLiailTEK. 


89 


««  O,  but  that's  so  long  !  "  said  th>  child. 

"What  makes  you  think  so  much  jf  her  ?  *'  asked  Willie. 

"  She  thinks  much  of  me;  she  can't  see  me,  and  she  likes  il6 
better  than  anybody  but  Uncle  True." 

I  don't  believe  it ;  I  don't  believe  she  likes  you  half  as  well 
as  1  do.  I  know  she  don't !  How  can  she,  when  she 's  blind,  and 
.Qever  saw  you  in  her  life,  and  I  see  you  all  the  time,  and  love 
you  better  than  I  do  anybody  in  the  world,  except  my  mother  ?  '* 

"  Do  you  really,  Willie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  always  think,  when  I  come  home,  Now  I  'ra 
going  to  see  Gerty ;  and  everything  that  happens  all  the  weok,  I 
think  to  myself — I  shall  tell  Gerty  that." 

"  I  should  n't  think  you 'd  like  me  so  well." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  0,  because  you're  so  handsome,  and  I  an't  handsome  a  bit. 
I  heard  Ellen  Chase  tell  Lucretia  Davis,  the  other  day,  that  she 
thought  Gerty  Flint  was  the  worst-looking  girl  in  school." 

"  Then  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,"  said  Willie.  1 
guess  she  an't  very  good-looking.  I  should  hate  the  looks  of  her^ 
or  any  other  girl  that  said  that." 

0,  Willie!  "  exclaimed  Gerty,  earnestly,  "it  'strue;  as  triio 
as  can  be." 

"  No,  it  an't  true,''  said  Willie.  "  To  be  sure,  you  have  n't  got 
long  curls,  and  a  round  face,  and  blue  eyes,  like  Belle  Clinton's, 
and  nobody 'd  think  of  setting  you  up  for  a  beauty ;  but  when 
you've  been  running,  and  have  rosy  cheeks,  and  your  great 
black  eyes  shine,  and  you  laugh  so  heartily  as  you  do  sometimea 
at  anything  funny,  I  often  think  you  're  the  brightest-looking  girl 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life  ;  and  I  don't  care  what  other  folks  think,  to 
loDg  as  I  like  your  looks.  I  feel  just  as  bad  when  you  cry,  or 
aDything's  the  matter  with  vnu.  as  if  it  were  myself,  and  worse. 
George  Bray  struck  his  lituc  oilier  Mary  yesterday,  because  she 
tore  his  kite ;  I  should  have  liked  to  give  him  a  flogging.  1 
wouldn't  strike  you,  Gerty,  if  you  tore  all  my  playthings  tu  , 
pieces.'' 

Such  professions  of  affection  on  Willie's  part  were  freq^ient^ 
and  always  responded  to  by  a  like  declaration  from  Gerty.  Not 
8^ 


THE  LAMPLlGfliru. 

were  they  m-re  professions.    The  two  children  loved  vaih  othex 
dearly.    They  were  very  differently  constituted,  for  Willie  was 
earnest,  persevering  and  patient,  calm  in  his  temperament,  and 
equal  in  his  spirits.    G  irty,  on  the  other  hand,  excitable  and 
imperious,  was  constantly  thrown  off  her  guard;  her  temper  was 
easily  roused,  her  spirits  variable,  her  whole  nature  sensitive  to 
the  last  degree.    Willie  was  accustomed  to  be  loved,  expected  to 
bo  loved,  and  was  loved  by  everybody.    Gerty  had  been  an  out. 
cast  from  all  affection,  looked  not  for  it,  and,  except  under 
favorable  circumstances  and  by  those  who  knew  her  well,  did  not 
readily  inspire  it.    But  that  they  loved  each  other  there  could 
be  no  doubt;  and,  if  in  the  spring  the  bond  between  them  was 
already  strong,  autumn  found  it  cemented  by  still  firmer  ties; 
for,  during  Emily's  absence,  Willie  filled  her  place  and  his  own 
too,  and  though  Gerty  did  not  forget  her  blind  friend,  she  passed 
a  most  happy  summer,  and  continued  to  make  such  progress  in 
her  studies  at  school,  that,  when  Emily  returned  to  the  city  in 
October,  she  could  hardly  understand  how  so  much  had  been 
accomplished  in  what  had  seemed  to  her  so  short  a  time. 

The  following  winter,  too,  was  passed  most  profitably  by  Gerty. 
Miss  Graham's  kindly  feeling  towards  her  little  protegee,  far  from 
having  diminished,  seemed  to  have  been  increased  by  time  and 
abse-  ce,  and  Gerty's  visits  to  Emily  became  more  frequent  than 
3ver.  The  profit  derived  from  these  visits  was  not  all  on  Gerty's 
part.  Emily  had  been  in  the  habit,  the  previous  winter,  of  hearing 
her  read  occasionally,  that  she  might  judge  of  her  proficiency; 
new,  however,  she  discovered,  on  the  first  trial,  that  the  little  girl 
had  attained  to  a  greater  degree  of  excellence  m  this  accouiplish- 
ment  than  is  common  among  grown  people.  She  read  under- 
standingly,  and  her  accent  and  intonations  were  so  admirable, 
tUt  Emily  found  rare  pleasure  in  listening  to  her. 

Partly  with  a  view  to  the  child's  benefit,  and  partly  for  her 
own  gratification,  she  proposed  that  Gerty  should  como  every  day 
and  read  to  her  for  an  hour.  Gerty  was  only  too  happy  to  oblige 
Ver  dear  Miss  Eunly,  who,  in  making  the  proposal,  represented  it 
Xc.  a  personal  favor  to  herself,  and  a  plan  by  which  Gerty's  eyea 
Douid  serve  for  them  both.    It  was  agreed  that  when  True  started 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


91 


m  jiis  lamp-lignting  expeditions  he  should  take  Gerty  to  Mr 
Grahan:'  s,  and  call  for  her  on  his  return.  Owing  to  this  arrange- 
ment, Gcrty  was  constant  and  punctual  in  her  attendance  at  the 
appointed  time ;  and  none  but  those  who  have  tried  it  are  aware 
what  a  large  amount  of  reading  may  be  accomplished  in  six 
months,  if  only  an  hour  is  devoted  to  it  regularly  each  day. 
Emily,  in  her  choice  of  books,  did  not  confine  herself  to  such  as 
come  strictly  within  a  child's  comprehension.  She  judged,  rightly, 
that  a  girl  of  such  keen  intelligence  as  Gerty  was  naturally  en- 
dowed with  would  suffer  nothing  by  occasionally  encountering 
what  w^as  beyond  her  comprehension ;  but  that,  on  the  contrary, 
^he  very  effort  she  would  be  called  upon  to  make  would  enlarge 
:.er  capacity,  and  be  an  incentive  to  her  genius.  So  history, 
biography,  and  books  of  travels,  were  perused  by  Gerty  at  an 
age  when  most  children's  literary  pursuits  are  confined  to  stories 
and  pictures.  The  child  seemed,  indeed,  to  giv^^  the  preference  to 
this  comparatively  solid  reading ;  and,  aided  by  Emily's  kind 
explanations  and  encouragement,  she  stored  up  in  her  little  brain 
many  an  important  fact  and  much  useful  information.  At  Gerty's 
age  the  memory  is  strong  and  retentive,  and  things  impressed  on 
the  mind  then  are  usually  better  remembered  than  what  is 
learned  in  after  years,  when  the  thoughts  ara  more  disturbed  and 
divided. 

Her  especial  favorite  was  a  little  work  on  astronomy,  which 
puzzled  her  more  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  but  which  de- 
lighted her  in  the  same  proportion;  for  it  made  some  things 
clear,  and  all  the  rest,  though  a  mystery  still,  was  to  her  a 
beautiful  mystery,  and  one  which  she  fully  meant  some  time  to 
explore  to  the  uttermost.  And  this  ambition  to  learn  more,  and 
anderstand  better,  by  and  by,  was,  after  all,  the  greatest  good  she 
derived.  Awaken  a  child's  ambition,  and  implant  in  her  a  taste 
for  literature,  and  more  is  gained  than  by  yearn  o'f  school-room 
drudgery,  where  the  heart  works  not  in  unison  with  the  head. 

From  the  time  Gerty  was  first  admitted,  until  she  was  twelve 
years  old,  she  continued  to  attend  the  public  schools  and  wa^ 
rapidly  advanced  and  promoted  ;  but  what  she  learned  with  Miss 
Graham  and  acquired  by  study  with  Willie  at  home,  formed 


92 


•mis  LAMPLIQHTISE. 


nearly  as  importaut  a  part  of  her  education.    Willie,  iis  wo  havs 
eaid,  was  very  fond  of  study,  and  was  delighted  at  Gerty's  warm 
participation  in  his  favorite  pursuit.    They  were  a  great  advantage 
to  each  other,  for  each  found  encouragement  in  the  other's  sjm- 
pafhy  and  cooperation.    After  the  first  year  or  two  of  theii 
acquaintance,  Willie  could  not  be  properly  called  a  child,  for  ha 
was  in  his  fifteenth  year,  and  beginning  to  look  quite  manly.  But 
Gerty's  eagerness  for  knowledge  had  all  the  more  influence  upon 
him  ;  for,  if  the  little  girl  ten  years  of  age  was  patient  and  willing 
to  labor  at  her  books  until  after  nine  o'clock,  the  youth  of  fifteen 
must  not  rub  his  eyes  and  plead  weariness.    It  was  when  they 
had  reached  these  respective  years  that  they  commenced  studying 
Frcn(;h  together.    Willie's  former  teacher  continued  to  feel  a 
kindly  interest  in  the  boy,  who  had  long  been  liis  best  scholar, 
and  who  would  certainly  have  borne  away  from  his  class  the  first 
prizes,  had  not  a  higher  duty  called  him  to  inferior  labors  previous 
to  the  public  exhibition.    Whenever  he  met  him  in  the  street,  or 
elsewhere,  he  inquired  concerning  his  mode  of  life,  and  whether 
he  continued  his  studies.    Finding  that  Willie  had  considerable 
Bpare  time,  he  earnestly  advised  him  to  learn  the  French  language, 
—  that  being  a  branch  of  knowledge  which  would  undoubtedly 
prove  useful  to  him,  whatever  business  he  might  chance  to  pursue  in 
life,—  and  offered  to  lend  him  such  books  as  he  would  need  at  the 
commencement. 

Willie  availed  himself  of  his  teacher's  advice,  and  his  kind 
offer,  and  began  to  study  in  good  earnest.  When  he  was  at  home 
in  the  evening,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  into  True's  room 
partly  for  the  sake  of  quiet  (for  True  was  a  quiet  man,  and  had 
too  great  a  veneration  for  learning  to  interrupt  the  students  with 
his  questions),  and  partly  for  the  sake  of  being  with  Gcrty,  who 
was  usually,  at  that  time,  occupied  with  her  books.  Gerty,  as 
may  be  supposed,  conceived  a  strong  desire  to  learn  French,  too. 
Willie  was  willing  she  should  try,  but  had  no  confidence  that  she 
would  long  persevere.  To  his  surprise,  however,  she  not  only 
discovered  a  wonderful  determination,  but  a  decided  talent  for  laa 
guage ;  and,  as  Emily  furnished  her  with  books  similar  to  ''Villie's 
8ho  kept  pee  vith  him,  oftentimes  translating  more  dui-lng  th« 


^    THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


93 


we(^k  ihaa  h-  could  find  time  to  do.  On  Saturd.iy  evening,  \^heii 
they  a.ways  \  ad  a  fine  study  time  together,  True  would  sit  on  his 
old  settle  by  the  fire,  watching  Willie  and  Gerty,  side  by  side,  at 
the  tabic,  with  their  eyes  bent  on  the  page,  which  to  him  seemed 
the  greatest  of  earthly  labyrinths.  Gerty  always  looked  out  the 
words,  in  which  employment  she  had  great  skill,  her  bright  eyes 
diving,  as  if  by  magic,  into  the  very  heart  of  the  dictionary,  ani 
transfixing  the  right  word  at  a  glance,  while  Willie's  province 
»ras  to  make  sense.  Almost  the  only  occasion  when  True  was 
iinown  to  disturb  them,  by  a  word  even,  was  when  he  first  htard 
Willie  talk  about  making  sense.  "  Making  sense,  Willie  ?  said 
the  old  man ;  "  is  that  what  ye  're  after  ?  Well,  you  could  n't  do 
a  better  business.  I  '11  warrant  you  a  market  for  it ;  there 's 
want  enough  on 't  in  the  world  !  " 

It  was  but  natural  that,  under  such  favorable  influences  as« 
Gerty  enjoyed,  with  Emily  to  advise  -and  direct,  and  Willie  to 
aid  and  encourage,  her  intellect  should  rapidly  expand  and 
strengthen.  But  how  is  it  with  that  little  heart  of  hers,  that,  at 
once  warm  and  afiectionate,  impulsive,  sensitive  and  passionate, 
now  throbs  with  love  and  gratitude,  and  now  again  burns  as 
vehemently  with  the  consuming  fire  that  a  sense  of  wrong,  a  con- 
sciousness  of  injury,  to  herself  or  her  friends,  would  at  anj 
moment  enkindle  ?  Has  she,  in  two  years  of  happy  childhood, 
learned  self-control  ?  Has  she  also  attained  to  an  enlightened 
sense  of  the  distinction  between  right  and  wrong,  truth  and  false- 
hood  ?  In  short,  has  Emily  been  true  to  her  self-imposed  trust, 
her  high  resolve,  to  soften  the  heart  and  instruct  the  soul  of 
the  little  ignorant  one  ?  Has  Gerty  learned  religion  ?  Has  she 
found  out  God,  and  begun  to  walk  patiently  in  that  path  which 
is  lit  by  a  holy  light,  and  leads  to  rest  ? 

She  has  begun;  and  though  her  footsteps  often  falter,  though 
ghe  sometimes  quite  turns  aside,  and,  impatient  of  the  narrow 
way,  gives  the  rein  to  her  old  irritability  and  ill-temper,  she  ia 
yst  but  a  child,  and  there  is  the  strongest  foundation  for  hopeful- 
ness m  th(-  sincerity  of  her  good  intentions,  and  the  depth  of  her 
contrition  vhen  wroag  has  had  the  mastery.  Emily  has  spared 
00  piins  ia  ^eachiug  her  where  to  place  her  strong  reliance,  anA 


91 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


Gerty  has  already  learned  to  look  to  higher  aid  than  Emily's 
and  to  lean  on  a  mightiei?  arm. 

Miss  Graham  had  appointed  for  herself  no  easy  task,  when  she 
undertook  to  inform  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  child  utterly  un- 
taught in  the  ways  of  virtue.    In  sortie  important  points,  however, 
Bhc  experienced  far  less  difficulty  than  she  had  anticipated.  For 
instance,  after  her  first  explanation  to  Gerty  of  the  difference 
between  honesty  and  dishonesty,  the  truth  and  a  lij,  she  never 
had  any  cause  to  complain  of  the  child,  whose  whole  nature  was 
the  very  reverse  of  deceptive,  and  whom  nothing  but  extreme  fear 
had  ever  driven  to  the  meanness  of  falsehood.    If  Gorty's  great- 
est  fault  lay  in  a  proud  and  easily-roused  temper,  that  very  f\iult 
carried  with  it  its  usual  accompaniment  of  frankness  and  sincerity. 
Under  almost  any  circumstances,  Gerty  would  have  been  too 
proud  to  keep  back  the  truth,  even  before  she  became  too  virtu- 
ous.   Emily  was  convinced,  before  she  had  known  Gerty  six 
months,  that  she  could  always  depend  upon  her  word :  and  nothing 
could  have  been  a  greater  encouragement  to  Miss  Graham's  un- 
selfish eff'orts  than  the  knowledge  that  truth,  the  root  of  every 
holy  thing,  had  thus  easily  and  early  been  made  to  take  up  its 
abode  in  the  child.    But  this  sensitive,  proud  temper  of  Gerty's 
seemed  an  inborn  thing ;  abuse  and  tyranny  had  not  been  able 
to  crush  it;  on  the  contrary,  it  had  flourished  in  the  midst  of  the 
unfavorable  influences  amid  which  she  had  been  nurtured.  Kind- 
ness could  accomplish  almost  anything  with  her,  oould  convince 
and  restrain ;  but  restraint  from  any  other  source  was  unbeara- 
ble, and,  however  proper  and  necessary  a  check  it  might  be,  she 
was  always  disposed  to  resent  it.    Emily  knew  that  to  such  a 
spirit  even  parental  control  is  seldom  sufficient.    She  knew  of  but 
one  influence  that  is  strong  enough,  one  power  that  never  fails 
to  quell  and  subdue  earthly  pride  and  passion ;  the  power  of 
Christiar  humility,  engrafted  into  the  heart,  —  the  humility  oi 
fyrinciple,  of  comcience,  —  the  only  power  to  which  native  pride 
over  will  pay  homage. 

She  knew  that  a  command,  of  almost  any  kind,  laid  upon 
Gerty  by  herself  or  Uncle  Tiue,  would  be  promptly  obeyed,  for, 
m  either  case,  the  little  girl  would  know  that  the  order  was  given 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


95 


in  love,  a.id  she  would  fulfil  it  in  the  same  spirit  but,  to  provide 
for  all  contingencies,  and  to  make  the  heart  rig'at  as  well  as  the 
life,  it  was  necessary  to  inspire  her  with  a  higher  motive  than 
merely  pleasing  either  of  these  friends ;  and,  in  teaching  her  the 
spirit  of  her  Divine  Master,  Emily  was  making  her  powerful  to 
do  and  to  suffer,  to  bear  and  to  forbear,  wbeo,  depending  on  her- 
self, she  should  be  left  to  ner  own  guidance  alone.  How  much 
Gerty  had  impr^^ved  in  the  two  years  that  had  passed  since  she 
first  began  to  be  so  carefully  instructed  and  provided  for,  the 
course  of  our  story  must  develop.  We  cannot  pause  to  dwell 
upon  the  trials  and  struggles,  the  failures  and  victories,  that  she 
experienced.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  Miss  Graham  was  satis- 
fied  and  hopeful,  True  proud  and  overjoyed,  while  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
aLd  even  old  Mr  Cooper,  declared  she  had  improved  wonderfullj 
in  her  behavior  and  ker  looks,  and  was  remarkab  y  aiftnnuriv  fes 
such  a  child. 


OHAPIER  Xlll. 


No  caprice  of  mind, 

No  passing  influence  of  idle  time, 

No  popular  show,  no  clamor  from  the  crowd. 

Can  move  him,  erring,  from  the  path  of  right. 

•  W.  G.  SIMMS. 

Use  Saturday  evening  in  December,  the  third  winter  of  G3rtj's 
residence  with  True,  Willie  came  in  with  his  French  books  under 
his  arm,  and,  after  the  first  salutations  were  over,  exclaimed,  as 
he  threw  the  grammar  and  dictionary  upon  the  table,  "  0, 
Gerty  !  before  we  begin  to  study,  I  must  tell  you  and  Uncle  True 
the  funniest  thing,  that  happened  to-day ;  I  have  been  laughing 
so  at  home,  as  I  was  telling  mother  about  it !  " 

"I  heard  you  laugh,"  said  Gerty.  "If  I  had  not  been  so 
busy,  I  should  have  gone  into  your  mother's  room,  to  hear  what  it 
was  so  very  droll.    But,  come,  do  tell  us  !  " 

'  Why,  you  will  not  think  it 's  anything  like  a  joke  when  I 
begin ;  and  I  should  not  be  so  much  amused,  if  she  had  n't  been 
the  very  queerest  old  woman  that  ever  I  saw  in  my  life." 

"  Old  woman  I  —  You  have  n't  told  us  about  any  old  woman  !  " 

"  But  I 'm  going  to,"  said  Willie.  "  You  noticed  how  every- 
Vhing  was  covered  with  ice,  this  morning.  How  splendidly  it 
looked,  did  n't  it  ?  I  declare,  when  the  sun  shone  on  that  great 
elm-tree  in  front  of  our  shop,  I  thought  I  never  saw  anything  so 
handsome  in  my  life.  But,  there,  that's  nothing  to  do  with  my 
old  woman,  —  only  that  the  side-walks  were  just  like  everything 
else,  a  perfect  glare." 

"  I  know  it,"  interrupted  Gerty  ;  "  I  fell  down,  going  to  school." 

"  Did  you?"  said  Willie  ;  "  didn't  you  get  hurt  ?" 

"  No,  indeed.  But  go  on ;  I  want  to  hear  about  your  old 
woman." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  & 

"I  was  stanciing  at  the  shop-door,  about  eleven  o clock,  looking 
out,  when  I  saw  the  strangest-looking  figure  that  you  3ver  imag- 
ined, coming  down  the  street.    I  must  tell  you  how  she  was 
dressed.    She  lid  look  so  ridiculous  !    She  had  on  some  kind  of 
a  black  silk  or  satin  gown,  made  very  scant,  and  trimmed  all 
sound  with  some  brownish-looking  lace  (black,  I  suppose  it  had 
fcca  once,  but  it  isn't  now);  then  she  had  a  gray  cloak,  of  some 
sort  of  silk  material,  that  you  certainly  would  have  said  came  out 
of  the  ark,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  little  cape,  of  a  different  color 
th.it  she  wore  outside  of  it,  and  which  must  have  dated  a  genera- 
hon  further  back.   I  would  not  undertake  to  describe  her  bonnet, 
only  I  know  it  was  twice  as  big  as  anybody's  else,  and  she  had 
a  figured  lace  veil  thrown  over  one  side,  that  reached  nearly  to 
her  feet.    But  her  goggles  were  the  crowner ;  such  immense, 
horrid-looking  things,  I  never  saw!    She  had  a  work-bag,  made 
ol  black  silk,  with  pieces  of  cloth  of  all  the  colors  in  the  rainbow 
Bcwed  on  to  it,  zigzag;  then  her  pocket-handkerchief  was  pinned 
to  her  bag,  and  a  great  feather  fan  (only  think,  at  this  season  of 
the  year  !),  that  was  pinned  on  somewhere  (by  a  string,  I  suppose), 
and  a  bundle-handkerchief  and  a  newspanor!    0,  gracious'  1 
can't  think  of  half  the  things ;  but  they  were  all  pinned  to^^ether 
with  great  brass  pins,  and  hung  in  a  body  on  her  left  arm  all 
depending  on  the  strength  of  the  bag-string.    Her  dress,  though, 
wasn't  the  strangest  thing  about  her.    What  made  it  too  funny 
was  to  see  her  way  of  walking;  she  looked  quite  old  and  infirm 
and  It  was  evident  she  could  hardly  keep  her  footing  on  the  ice;' 
and  yet  she  walked  with  such  a  smirk,  such  a  consequential  litt^' 
air!    0,  Gerty,  it's  lucky  you  didn't  see  her;  you'd  have 
laughed  from  then  till  this  time." 

"  Some  poor  crazy  crittur',  was  n't  she  ?  "  asked  True. 
"  0,  no  !  "  said  Willie,  "  I  don't  think  she  was  ;  quep'r  enough 
to  be  sure,  but  not  crazy.  Just  as  she  got  opposite  the  shop-coor 
ter  feet  slipped,  and,  the  first  thing  I  knew,  she  fell  flat  on 
the  side-walk.  I  rushed  out,  for  I  thought  the  fall  might  hav. 
killed  the  poor  little  thing;  and  Mr.  Bray,  and  a  gentleman 
he  was  wa.ting  upon,  followed  me.  She  did  appear  stunned,  at 
tirst;  but  we  carried  her  into  the  shop,  and  sLe  came  to  her  sensas 
9 


98 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


in  a  minute  or  two.    Crazy,  you  asked  if  she  were,  Uncle  True  1 
No,  not  she !    She 's  as  bright  as  a  dollar.    As  soon  as  she 
opened  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  know,  what  she  was  about,  she  felt 
for  her  work-bag  and  all  its  appendages ;  counted  them  up,  to 
see  if  the  number  were  right,  and  then  nodded  her  head  very  satis- 
factorily.   Mr.  Bray  poured  out  a  glass  of  cordial,  and  offered  it 
to  her.    By  this  time  she  had  got  her  airs  and  graces  back  agam ; 
BO,  when  he  recommended  to  her  to  swallow  the  cordial,  she  re- 
treated, with  a  little  old-fashioned  curtsey,  and  put  up  both  hands 
to  express  her  horror  at  the  idea  of  such  a  thing.    The  .2:entle- 
rffan  that  was  standing  by  smiled,  and  advised  her  to  take  it, 
telling  her  it  would  do  her  no  harm.    Upon  that,  she  turned 
round,  made  another  curtsey  to  him,  and  answered,  in  a  little, 
cracked  voice,  '  Can  you  assui'e  me,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  of  candor 
and  gallantry,  that  it  is  not  an  exhilarating  potion  ? '    The  gen- 
tleman  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing ;  but  he  told  her  it  was 
nothing  that  would  hurt  her.    '  Then,'  said  she,  '  I  will  venture 
to  sip  the  beverage;  it  has  a  most  aromatic  fragrance.'  She 
seemed  to  like  the  taste,  as  well  as  the  smell,  for  she  drank  every 
drop  of  it ;  and,  when  she  had  set  the  glass  down  on  the  counter, 
she  turned  to  me  and  said,  '  Except  upon  this  gentleman's  assur- 
ance of  the  harmlessness  of  the  liquid,  I  would  not  have  swallowed 
it  in  your  presence,  my  young  master,  if  it  were  only  for  the 
example.    T  have  set  my  seal  to  no  temperance-pledge,  but  I  am 
abstemious  because  it  becomes  a  lady ;  —  it  is  with  me  a  matter 
of  choice  — a  mazier  of  taste:    She  now  seemed  quite  restored, 
and  talked  of  starting  again  on  her  walk  ;  but  it  really  was  not 
safe  for  her  to  go  alone  on  the  ice,  and  I  rather  think  Mr.  Bray 
thought  so,  for  he  asked  her  where  she  was  going.    She  told  him, 
in  her  roundabout  way,  that  she  was  proceeding  to  pass  the  day 
with  Mistress  somebody,  that  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Common.    I  touched  Mr.  Bray's  arm,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
that,  if  he  could  spare  me,  I 'd  go  with  her.    He  said  he  should  n't 
•Yant  me  for  an  hour ;  so  I  offered  her  my  arm,  and  told  her  T 
bhouid  be  happy  to  wait  upon  her.    You  ought  to  have  seen  her 
then  !    If  I  had  been  a  grown-up  man,  and  she  a  young  lady,  she 
could  n't  haT>  tossed  her  head  or  giggled  more.    But  t  ie  took 


rHE  l^MPLIGHTEK. 


arm,  and  wo  started  off.  I  knew  Mr.  Bray  and  the  gentle- 
man were  laughing  to  see  us,  but  I  did  n't  care  ;  I  pitied  the  old 
lady,  and  I  did  not  mean  she  should  get  another  tumble. 

"  Every  person  we  met  stared  at  us  ;  and  it 's  no  wonder  they 
did  J  for  we  must  have  been  a  most  absurd-looking  couple.  Sho 
not  only  accepted  my  offered  crook,  but  clasped  her  hands  together 
round  it,  making  a  complete  handle  of  her  two  arms ;  and  so  slie 
hung  on  with  alkher  might.  —  But,  there,  I  ought  not  to  laugh  at 
the  poor  thing ;  for  she  needed  somebody  to  help  her  along,  and 
I 'm  sure  she  was  n't  heavy  enough  to  tire  me  out,  if  she  did  make 
the  most  of  herself.  I  wonder  who  she  belongs  to.  I  should  li-'t 
think  her  friends  would  let  her  go  about  the  streets  so,  especially 
such  walking  as  it  is  to-day." 

"  What 's  her  name  ?  "  inquired  Gerty.  "  Did  n't  you  find  out  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Willie ;  "  she  would  n't  tell  me.  I  asked  her; 
but  she  only  said,  in  her  little,  cracked  voice  (and  here  Willie 
began  to  laugh  immoderately),  that  she  was  the  incognito,  and 
that  it  was  the  part  of  a  true  and  gallant  knight  to  discover  the 
name  of  his  fair  lady.  O,  I  promise  you,  she  was  a  case !  Why, 
you  never  heard  any  one  talk  so  ridiculously  as  she  did  !  I 
asked  her  how  old  she  was.  —  Mother  says  that  was  very  impolite, 
but  it 's  the  only  uncivil  thing  I  did,  or  said,  as  the  old  lady 
would  testify  herself,  if  she  were  here." 

*'  How  old  is  she  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"  Sixteen." 

"  Why,  Willie,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That 's  what  she  told  me,"  returned  Willie  ;  "  and  a  true  and 
gallant  knight  is  bound  to  believe  his  fair  lady." 
Poor  body  '  "  said  True  ;  "  she 's  childish  !  " 

"  No,  she  is  n't.  Uncle  True,"  said  Willie  ;  "  you 'd  tliink  eo, 
part  of  the  tl/c  e,  to  hear  her  run  on  with  her  nonsense  ;  and  then, 
*he  next  minnte,  she 'd  speak  as  sensibly  as  anj^body,  and  say 
how  much  obliged  she  was  to  me  for  showing  such  a  spirit  of  con- 
formity as  to  be  willing  to  put  myself  to  so  much  trouble  for  the 
Bake  of  an  old  woman  like  her.  Just  as  we  turned  into  Boacon- 
street^  we  met  a  whole  school  of  girls,  blooming  beauties,  hand- 
fiome  etough  to  kill,  my  old  lady  called  them  ,  and.  frr^m  the 


LOO 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEfl. 


instant  tliey  caniii  in  sight,  she  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  I 
should  try  to  get  away  from  her,  and  run  after  some  of  them.  But 
she  held  on  with  a  vengeance !  It 's  lucky  I  had  no  idea  of  for- 
saking her,  for  it  would  have  been  impossible.  Sonib  of  them 
stopped  and  stared  at  us,  —  of  course,  I  didn't  care  how  much 
they  stared ;  but  she  seemed  to  think  I  should  be  terribly  morti- 
fied ;  and  when  we  had  passed  them  all,  she  complimented  me  again 
and  again  on  my  spirit  of  conformity,  —  her  favorite  expression." 

Here  Willie  paused,  quite  out  of  breath.  True  clapped  him 
upon  the  shoulder.  'Good  boy,  \Yillie ! "  said  he;  "clever 
bgy  !  You  always  look  out  for  the  old  folks;  and  that's  right. 
Respect  for  the  aged  is  a  good  thing ;  though  your  graadfather 
says  it's  xerY  much  out  of  fashion." 

*'  I  don't  know  much  about  fashion,  Uncle  True  ;  but  I  should 
think  it  was  a  pretty  mean  sort  of  a  boy  that  would  see  an  old 
lady  get  one  fall  on  the  ice,  and  not  save  her  from  another  by- 
seeing  her  safe  home." 

"  Willie 's  always  kind  to  everybody,"  said  Gerty. 

"  Willie 's  either  a  hero,"  said  the  boy,  or  else  he  has  got 
two  pretty  good  friends,  —  I  rather  think  it 's  the  latter.  But. 
come,  Gerty ;  Charles  the  XII.  is  waiting  for  us,  and  we  must 
study  as  much  as  we  can  to-night.  We  may  not  have  another 
chance  very  soon;  for  Mr.  Bray  isn't  well  this  evening;  he 
seems  threatened  with  a  fever,  and  I  promised  to  go  back  to  the 
shop  after  dinner  to-moriow.  If  he  should  be  sick,  I  shall  have 
plenty  to  do,  without  coming  home  at  all." 

"  0,  I  hope  Mr.  Bray  is  not  going  to  have  a  fever,"  said  Truo 
and  Gerty,  in  the  same  breath. 

"  He 's  ,^uch  a  clever  man  !  "  said  True. 

*'  He 's  so  good  to  you,  Willie  !  "  added  Gerty. 

Willie  hoped  not,  too;  but  his  hopes  gave  place  to  his  fears, 
when  he  found,  on  the  following  day,  that  his  kind  master  was 
not  able  to  leave  his  bed,  and  the  doctor  pronounced  his  r,'mp' 
toms  alarming. 

A  typhoid  fever  set  in,  which  in  a  few  days  terminated  the 
life  of  the  excellent  apothecary. 

The  deati  of  Mr.  Bray  was  sc  sudden  and  dreadful  a  bloir  to 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


101 


Willie,  thut  lie  did  not  at  first  realize  the  important  bearing  the 
event  liad  upon  his  own  fortunes.  The  shop  \Yas  closed,  the 
widow  having  determined  to  dispr^se  of  the  stock  and  remove  into 
the  country  as  soon  as  possible. 

Willie  was  thus  lef"  without  employment,  and  depri\'ed  of  Mr 
Bray's  valuable  reco-nmendation  and  assistance.  Hj.s  earnings 
during  the  past  year  had  been  very  considerable,  and  had  added 
essentially  to  the  comfort  of  his  mother  and  grandfather,  who  had 
thus  been  enabled  to  relax  the  severity  of  their  own  labors.  The 
thought  of  being  a  burden  to  them,  even  for  a  day,  was  intolerable 
to  the  independent  and  energetic  spirit  of  the  boy ;  and  he  earnestly 
set  himself  to  work  to  obtain  another  place.  He  commenced  by 
applying  to  the  different  apothecaries  in  the  city.  But  none  of 
them  wanted  a  youth  of  his  age,  and  one  day  was  spent  in  fruit- 
less inquiries. 

He  returned  home  at  night,  disappointed,  but  not  by  any  meanjj 
discouraged.  If  he  could  not  obtain  employment  with  an  apothe- 
cary, he  would  do  something  else. 

But  what  should  he  do  ?  That  was  the  question.  He  had  long 
talks  with  his  mother  about  it.  She  felt  that  his  talents  and  educa- 
tion entitled  him  to  fill  a  position  equal,  certainly,  to  that  he  had 
already  occupied ;  and  could  not  endure  tho  thought  of  his  de- 
Bcending  to  more  menial  service,  ^yillie,  without  too  much  self- 
esteem,  thought  so  too.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  he  was  capable 
of  giving  satisfaction  in  a  station  which  required  more  business  tal- 
ent than  his  situation  at  Mr.  Bray's  had  ever  given  scope  to.  But, 
if  he  could  not  obtain  such  a  place  as  he  desired,  he  would  take 
what  he  could  get.  So  he  made  every  possible  inquiry ;  but  he 
had  no  one  to  speak  a  good  word  for  him,  and  he  could  not 
expect  people  to  feel  confidence  in  a  boy  concerning  whom  thsy 
knew  nothing. 

So  he  met  with  no  success,  and  day  after  day  returned  home 
silent  and  depressed.  He  dreaded  to  meet  his  mother  and  grand- 
father, after  every  fresh  failure.  The  care-worn,  patient  face  of 
the  former  turned  cowards  h*ra  so  hopefully,  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  sadden  it  by  the  recital  of  any  new  disappointment  and  hia 
grandfather's  incredulity  in  the  possibility  of  his  ever  having  any- 
9% 


102 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


thing  to  do  again  was  equally  tantalizing,  so  long  as  he  saw  no 
hope  of  convincing  him  ^  to  the  contrary.  After  a  week  or  two, 
Mrs.  Sullivan  avoided  asking  him  any  questions  concerning  the 
occurrences  ul  the  day  ;  for  her  watchful  eye  saw  how  much  such 
inquiries  pained  him,  and  therefore  she  waited  for  him  to  make 
his  communications,  if  he  had  any. 

Sometimes  nothing  was  said,  on  either  side,  of  the  manner  in 
which  Willie  had  passed  his  day.  And  many  an  application  did 
he  make  for  employment,  many  a  mortifying  rebuff  did  he  recciYe, 
of  which  liis  mother  never  knew. 


CHAPTEK  XIV. 


Yet  where  an  equal  poise  of  liope  and  fear 
Does  arbitrate  the  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  incline  to  hope,  rather  than  fear. 

COMUf 

rHi&  was  altogether  a  new  experience  to  Willie,  and  ore  of  kfi 
mLst  trying  lie  could  have  been  called  upon  to  bear.  But  he  bore  it, 
and  bore  it  bravely ;  kept  all  his  worst  struggles  from  his  anxious 
mother  and  desponding  grandfather,  and  resolved  manfully  to  hope 
against  hope.    Gerty  was  now  his  chief  comforter.    He  told  her 
all  his  troubles,  and,  young  as  she  was,  she  was  a  wonderful  con- 
Boler.    Always  looking  on  the  bright  side,  always  prophesying 
better  luck  to-morrow,  she  did  much  towards  keeping  up  his  hopes, 
and  strengthening  his  resolutions.    Gerty  was  so  quick,  sagacious 
and  observing,  that  she  knew  more  than  most  children  of  the 
various  ways  in  which  things  are  often  brought  about ;  and  she 
sometimes  made  valuable  suggestions  to  Willie,  of  which  he  gladly 
availed  himself    Among  others,  she  one  day  asked  him  if  he  had 
applied  at  the  intelligence-offices.    He  had  never  thought  of  it,  — 
wondered  he  had  not,  but  would  try  the  plan  the  very  next 
day.    He  did  so,  and  for  a  time  was  buoyed  up  with  the  hopei 
held  :ut  to  him  ;   but  they  proved  fleeting,  and  he  was  now 
almost  in  despair,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  an  advertisement  in  a 
newspaper,  which  seemed  to  afford  still  another  chance.  He 
*owed  the  notice  to  Gerty.    It  was  just  the  thing.    He  had  only 
TO  apply  •  he  was  the  very  boy  that  man  wanted  ;~  just  fifteen, 
^mavi,  capable  and  trustworthy ;  and  wouJd  like,  when  he  had 
learned  the  business,  t:  go  into  partnership.    That  was  what  was 
required  ;  and  Willie  was  the  very  person,  sue  was  sure. 

Gei  ty  was  so  f^anguine,  that  Willie  |  resented  himself  the  nexl 


104 


THE  LAMPl^GHTER. 


day  at  the  place  specified,  with  a  more  eager  countenance  than  ht 
had  ever  jet  worn.  The  gentleman,  a  sharp-looking  man,  with 
very  keen  eyes,  talked  wilh  him  some  time;  asked  a  great  many 
questions,  made  the  boy  very  uncomfortable  by  hinting  his  dcubta 
about  his  capability  and  honesty,  and,  finally,  wound  up  by  declar- 
mg  that,  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  and  with  the 
very  best  reconmiendations,  he  could  not  think  of  eno-ao-incr  with 
any  young  man,  unless  his  friends  were  willing  to  take  some 
interest  in  the  concern,  and  invest  a  small  amount  on  his  account. 

This,  of  course,  made  the  place  out  of  the  question  for  Willie, 
even  if  he  had  liked  th'-  man;  which  he  did  not,  for  he  felt  in  his 
neart  that  he  was  a  kxidve,  or  not  many  degrees  removed  fi'on: 
one. 

Until  now,  he  had  never  thought  of  despairing ;  but  wben  he 
went  home  after  this  last  interview,  it  was  with  such  a  heavy 
heart,  that  it  seemed  to  him  utterly  impossible  to  meet  his  mother 
and  so  he  went  directly  to  True's  room.  It  was  the  night  before 
Christmas.  True  had  gone  out,  and  Gerty  was  alone.  There 
was  a  bright  fire  in  the  stove,  and  the  room  was  dimly  light^A  by 
the  last  rays  of  the  winter  sunset,  and  by  the  glare  of  the  coals 
seen  through  one  of  the  open  doors  of  the  stove. 

Gerty  was  engaged  in  stirring  up  an  Indian  cake  for  tea,  —  one 
of  the  few  branches  of  the  cooking  department  in  which  she  had 
acquired  come  little  skill.  She  was  just  coming  from  the  pantry, 
with  a  scoop  full  of  meal  in  her  hand,  when  Willie  entered  at  the 
opposite  door.  The  manner  in  which  he  tossed  his  cap  upon  the 
settle,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  leaned  his  head  upon  both 
hijs  hands,  betrayed  at  once  to  Gerty  the  defeat  the  poor  boy  had 
met  with  in  this  last  encounter  with  ill-fate.  It  was  so  u^alike 
Willie  to  come  in  without  even  speaking,  — it  was  such  a  strange 
thing  to  se^  his  bright  young  head  bowed  down  with  care,  and  hb 
elastic  figure  looking  tired  and  old,  —  that  Gerty  knew  at  once  his 
brave  heart  had  given  way.  She  laid  down  the  ccoop,  and,  walking 
softly  and  slowly  up  to  him,  touched  his  arm  with  her  hand,  and 
looked  up  anxiously  intc  his  face.  Her  sympathetic  touch  and  look 
were  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  laid  his  head  on  the  table,  ana 
«  in  a  minute  more  Gerty  heard  great  heavy  sobs,  each  one  of  whi  3b 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


105 


sank  d.ep  into  her  soul,  She  often  cried  herself, —  it  seemed  onl^ 
natural  •  but  Willie,  -  -  the  laughing,  happy,  light-hearted  Willie, 
—  ?he  had  never  seen  him  cry ;  she  did  n't  know  he  caidd.  Sac. 
crept  up  on  the  rounds  of  his  chair,  and,  putting  her  ai'm  round 
his  neck,  whispered, 

"  I  should  n't  mind,  Willie,  if  I  did  n't  get  the  place  I  don't 
believe  it 's  a  good  place." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is,  either,"  said  Willie,  lifting  up  his  bead ; 
"  but  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  can't  get  any  place,  and  I  can't  staj 
here,  doing  nothing." 

"  We  like  to  have  you  at  home,"  said  Gerty. 

"It's  pleasant  enough  to  be  at  home.  I  was  always  glad 
enough  to  come  when  I  lived  at  Mr.  Bray's,  and  was  earning 
something,  and  could  feel  as  if  anybody  was  glad  to  see  me." 

"  Everybody  is  glad  to  see  you  tioz^." 

"  But  not  as  they  were  then,''  said  Willie,  rather  impatiently. 
"  Mother  always  looks  as  if  she  expected  to  hear  I 'd  got  some- 
thing to  do ;  and  grandfather,  I  believe,  never  thought  I  should 
be  good  for  much;  and  now,  just  as  I  ^vas  beginning  to  earn 
something,  and  be  a  help  to  them,  I 've  lost  my  chance  !  " 

"  But  that  an't  your  fault,  Willie ;  you  could  n't  help  Mr. 
Bray's  dying.  I  should  n't  think  Mr.  Ccopor  would  blame  you 
for  not  having  anything  to  do  now.'^ 

"  He  don't  blame  me ;  but,  if  you  were  in  my  place,  you 'd  feel 
just  as  I  do,  to  see  him  sit  in  his  arm-chair,  evenings,  and  groan 
and  look  up  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  it's  yait  I'm  groanmg 
about.'  He  thinks  this  is  a  dreadful  v/orld,  and  that  he 's  never 
seen  any  good  luck  in  it  himself ;  so  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  never 
Bhall." 

I  think  you  will,"  said  Gerty.  "  I  think  you  '11  be  rich, 
iome  time,  —  and  then  won'c  he  be  astonished  ?  " 

"  0,  Gerty  !  you  're  a  nice  child,  and  think  I  can  do  anything. 
If  ever  1  am  rich,  I  promise  to  go  shares  with  you ;  but,"  added 
tie,  despondingly,  " 't  an't  so  easy.  I  used  to  think  I  could  make 
money  when  I  grew  up  ;  but  it 's  pretty  slow  business." 

Here  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaning  down  upon  the  table  again, 
and  giving  himself  up  to  melancholy ;  but  G^Tty  caught  hold  of 


106 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


his  hands  Come,"  said  she,  Willie.  Don't  think  any  mo7ft 
about  it.  People  have  troubles  always,  but  they  get  uvcr  'cm; 
perhaps  next  week  you'll  be  in  a  better  shop  than  Mr.  Bray's, 
and  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  ever.  Do  you  know,"  said  she,  by 
way  jf  changing  the  subject  (a  species  of  tact  which  chilJren 
undorstanl  as  well  as  grown  people),  "it's  just  two  years  to-night 
since  I  came  here?" 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Willie.  "  Did  Uncle  True  bring  you  home  with 
him  the  night  before  Christmas  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Why,  that  was  Santa  Claus  carrying  you  to  good  things 
instead  of  bringing  good  things  to  you,  was  n't  it  ? " 

Gerty  did  not  know  anything  about  Santa  Claus,  that  special 
friend  of  children  ;  and  Willie,  who  had  only  lately  read  abou< 
him  in  some  book,  undertook  to  tell  her  what  he  knew  of  the 
veteran  toy-dealer. 

Finding  the  interest  of  the  subject  had  engaged  his  thoughts  in 
spite  of  himself,  Gerty  returned  to  her  cooking,  listening  atten- 
tively, however,  to  his  story,  while  she  stirred  up  the  corn-cake. 
When  he  had  iunshed,  she  was  just  putting  her  cake  in  the  oven  ; 
and,  as  she  sat  on  her  knee  by  the  stove,  swinging  the  handle  of 
the  oven-door  in  her  hand,  her  eyes  twinkled  with  such  a  merry 
look  that  Willie  exclaimed,  "  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Gerty 
that  makes  you  look  so  sly  ? " 

"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  Santa  Claus  would  come  for  yon 
to-night.  If  he  comes  for  folks  that  need  something,  I  expect  he  '11 
?ome  for  you,  and  carry  you  to  some  place  where  j^ou'll  have  a 
chance  to  grow  rich." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Willie,  "  he  '11  clap  me  into  his  bag,  and 
trudge  off  with  me  as  a  present  to  somebody,  — some  old  Croesus, 
that  will  give  me  a  fortune  for  the  asking.  I  do  hope  he  will ; 
for,  if  I  don't  get  samething  to  do  before  New  Year,  I  shall  give 
up  in  despair." 

True  now  came  in,  and  interrupted  the  children's  conversation 
by  the  display  of  a  fine  turkey,  a  Christmas  present  from  Mr, 
Graham.    .H*^,  had  also  a  book  for  Gerty,  a  gift  from  Emily. 

"  Is  n't  'Jiat  queer  ?  "  exclaimed  Gerty.  "  Willie  was  just  say* 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


101 


iT^^  you  were  my  Santa  Claas,  Uncle  True  ;  and  I  do  believe  you 
arc, '  As  slie  Bpoke,  she  opened  the  book,  and  in  the  frontis- 
piece was  a  portrait  of  that  individual.  "  It  looks  like  him, 
V/illic :  I  declare  it  does !  "  shouted  she  ;  "  a  fur  cap  a  pipe, 
and  just  such  a  pleasaut  face  !  0  !  Uncle  True,  if  you  only  had 
a  sack  full  of  toys  over  your  shoulder,  instead  of  your  lantern 
und  that  great  turkey,  you  would  be  a  complete  Santa  CI?  us. 
HaTe  n't  you  got  anything  for  Willie,  Uncle  True  ?  " 

Yes,  I 've  got  a  little  something  ;  but  I 'm  afeared  he  won't 
think  much  on 't.    It 's  only  a  bit  of  a  note." 

A  note  for  me  ?  "  inquired  Willie.  Who  can  it  be  from  ? 
"  Can't  say,"  said  True,  fumbling  in  his  great  pockets;  only, 
just  round  the  corner,  I  met  a  man  who  stopped  me  to  inquire 
where  Miss  Sullivan  lived.  I  told  him  she  lived  jist  here,  and 
I 'd  show  him  the  house.  When  he  saw  I  belonged  here  too,  he 
give  me  this  little  scrap  o'  paper,  and  asked  me  to  hand  it  over, 
as  it  was  directed  to  Master  William  Sullivan.  I  s'pose  that 's 
you,  an't  it  ?  " 

He  now  handed  Willie  the  slip  of  paper;  and  the  boy,  taking 
True's  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  holding  the  note  up  to  the  light, 
read  aloud : 

"  R.  H.  Clinton  would  like  to  see  William  Sullivan  on  Thurs- 
day morning,  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  at  No.  13  

Wharf" 

Willie  looked  up  in  amazen  ent.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  said 
lie ;  "I  don't  know  any  such  person." 

"  I  know  who  he  is,"  said  True  ;  "  why,  it 's  he  as  lives  in  the 

great  stone  house  in          street.    He 's  a  rich  man,  and  that 's 

the  number  of  his  store  —  his  counting-room,  rather,  —  on  

*\Vharf." 

"  What !  father  to  those  pretty  children  we  used  to  see  in  the 
t^indow  ?  " 

"  The  very  same." 

"  What  can  he  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  Very  like  he  wants  your  sarvices,"  suggested  True. 

"  Then  it 's  place  !  "  cried  Gerty,  "  a  real  goo  i  one,  and  Santa 
Ulaus  came  and  brougkt  it!  I  said  he  would!  0,  Willie,  I'm 
90  glad  !  " 


108 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


Willie  did  not  know  whether  to  be  glad  cii  not.  Xt  was  such  a 
strange  message,  coming  too  from  an  utter  stranger.  He  could 
lot  but  hope,  as  Gerty  and  True  did,  tha^.  it  might  prove  tho 
dawning  of  some  good  fortune ;  but  he  had  reasons,  of  which  they 
were  not  aware,  for  believing  that  no  offer  from  this  quarter 
could  be  available  to  him,  and  therefore  made  them  both  prom- 
ise to  give  no  hint  of  the  matter  to  his  mother  or  Mr.  Cooper. 

On  Thursdav,  which  was  the  next  day  but  one,  being  the  day 
after  Christmas,  Willie  presented  himself  at  the  appointed  time 
and  place.  Mr.  Clinton,  a  gentlemanly  man,  with  a  friendly 
countenance,  received  him  very  kindly,  asked  him  but  few  ques- 
tions, and  did  not  even  mention  such  a  thing  as  a  recommenda- 
tion from  his  former  employer;  but,  teiiing  him  that  he  was 
in  want  of  a  young  man  to  fill  the  place  of  junior  clerk  in  his 
counting-room,  offered  him  the  situation.  Willie  hesitated ;  for, 
though  the  offer  was  most  encouraging  to  his  future  prospects, 
Mr  Clinton  made  no  mention  of  any  salary;  and  that  was  a  thin^ 
the  youth  could  not  dispense  with.  Seeing  that  he  was  unde 
cided,  Mr.  Clinton  said,  "  Perhaps  you  do  not  like  my  proposal 
or  have  already  made  some  other  engagement." 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  Willie,  quickly.  ^'  You  are  very  kin^^ 
to  feel  so  much  confidence  in  a  stranger  as  to  be  willing  to  receive 
me,  and  your  offer  is  a  most  unexpected  and  welcome  one  ;  bul 
I  have  been  in  a  retail  store,  where  I  obtained  regular  earnings, 
which  were  very  important  to  m^-  mother  and  grandflither.  / 
bad  far  rather  be  in  a  counting-room,  like  yours,  sir,  and  I  think 
I  might  learn  to  be  of  use ;  but  I  know  theic  are  numbers  of  hoy\ 
sons  of  rich  men,  who  would  be  glad  to  be  employed  by  you,  and 
would  ask  no  compensation  for  their  services  •  so  that  I  could  not 
ezpect  any  salary,  at  least  for  some  years.  I  should,  indeed,  be 
well  repaid,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  by  the  knowledge  I  might 
gain  of  mercantile  affairs  ;  but  unfortunately,  sir,  I  can  no  more 
afford  it  than  I  could  afford  to  c:o  ::o  colleo-e." 

The  gentleman  smiled.  "  How  did  you  know  so  much  of  these 
matters,  my  young  friend  ?  " 

I  h-ive  heard,  sir,  from  boys  who  were  at  school  with  me^ 
md  are  now  clerks  in  mercantile  houses,  that  they  received  m 


IHE  LAM.PLIGHTEK. 


pap,  a^d  I  always  considered  it  a  perfectly  fair  arr  uigerient ; 
but  it  was  the  reason  why  I  felt  bound  to  content  myself  with  Iha 
position  I  held  in  an  apothecar^^'s  shop,  which,  though  it  was  not 
suited  to  my  taste,  enabled  me  to  support  myself,  and  to  relieve 
my  mother,  who  is  a  widow,  and  my  grandfather,  who  is  old  and 
p(  or." 

"  Your  grandfather  is  —  " 
Mr.  Cooper,  sexton  of  Mr.  Arnold's  church." 
Aha  !  "  said  Mr.  Clinton  ;  "  I  know  him." 

"  What  you  say,  William,"  added  he,  after  a  moment's  pause, 

is  perfectly  true.  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  any  sal- 
arv  to  our  young  clerks,  and  are  overrun  with  applications  at 
that  rate ;  but  I  have  heard  good  accounts  of  you,  my  boy  (I 
shan't  toll  you  where  I  had  my  information,  though  I  see  you  look 
very  curious),  and,  moreover,  I  like  your  countenance,  and  be- 
lieve you  will  serve  me  faithfully.  So,  if  you  will  tell  me  v/hat 
you  received  from  Mr.  Bray,  I  will  pay  you  the  same  next  year, 
md,  after  that,  increase  your  salary,  if  I  tind  you  deserve  it ;  and, 
if  you  please,  you  shall  commence  with  me  the  first  of  January." 

Willie  thanked  Mr.  Clinton  in  the  fewest  possible  v/ords,  and 
hastened  away. 

The  senior  clerk,  who,  as  he  leaned  over  his  accounts,  listened 
to  the  conversation,  thought  the  boy  did  not  express  much  grat- 
itude, considering  the  unusual  generosity  of  the  merchant's  offer. 
But  the  merchant  himself,  who  was  watching  the  boy's  counte- 
nance, while  despondency  gave  place  to  surprise,  and  surprise 
igain  was  superseded  by  hope,  joy,  and  a  most  sincere  thankful^ 
ness,  saw  there  a  gratitude  too  deep  to  express  itself  in  words, 
and  remembered  the  time  when  he  too,  the  only  son  of  his  mother, 
and  she  a  widow,  had  come  alone  to  the  city,  sought  long  for 
employment,  and,  finding  it  at  last,  had  sat  down  to  write  and 
tell  her  how  he  hoped  soon  to  earn  enough  for  himself  and  her. 

The  grass  had  been  growing  on  that  parent's  grave,  far  back  in 
the  country,  more  than  twenty  years,  and  the  merchant's  face 
vras  furrowed  with  the  lines  of  care  ;  but,  as  he  returned  slowly 
to  his  desk,  and  unconsciously  traced,  on  a  blank  shfet  of  paper, 
and  with  a  dry  pen,  the  words  "  Dear  mother,"  she  for  the  time 
1 


110 


me  LAMPLIGHTEK 


became  a  living  image  ;  he,  a  boy  again ;  and  those  invisible  wora. 
were  the  commencement  of  the  very  letter  that  carried  her  the 
news  of  his  good  fortune. 

No.  The  boy  was  not  ungrateful,  or  the  merchant  would  not 
thus  have  been  reminded  of  the  time  when  his  own  heart  had 
even  so  deeply  stirred. 

And  the  spirits  of  those  mothers  who  have  wept,  prayed,  and 
thanked  God  over  similar  communications  from  much-loved  sons, 
may  know  how  to  rejoice  and  sympathize  with  good  little  Mrs 
Sullivan,  when  she  heard  from  Willie  the  joyful  tidings.  Mr. 
Cooper  and  Gerty  also  have  their  prototypes  in  many  an  old 
man,  whose  dim  and  world-TVorn  eye  lights  up  occasionally  with 
the  hope  that,  disappointed  as  he  has  been  himself,  he  cannot  help 
cherishing  for  his  grandson ;  and  in  many  a  proud  little  sister, 
who  now  sees  her  noble  brother  appreciated  by  others,  as  he  has 
always  been  by  her.  Nor,  on  such  an  occasion,  is  the  band  of 
rejoicing  ones  complete,  without  some  such  hearty  friend  as  True 
to  come  in  unexpectedly,  tap  the  boy  on  the  shoulder,  and  ex- 
claim, "Ah!  Master  Willie,  they  need  n't  have  worried  about 
you,  need  they  ?  I 've  told  your  grandflither,  more  than  once,  that 
I  was  of  the  'pinion 't  would  all  come  out  right,  at  last." 

The  great  mystery  of  the  whole  matter  was  Mr.  Clinton's  ever 
havin^r  heard  of  Willie  at  all.  Mrs.  Sullivan  thought  over  all 
her  small  circle  of  acquaintances,  and  suggested  a  great  many 
impossible  ways.  But  as,  with  much  conjecturing  they  came  nr 
nearer  to  the  truth,  they  finally  concluded  to  c  ^  as  Gerty  did 
Ret  it  all  down  to  the  agency  of  Santa  Claua. 


CfiA.PTER  XV. 


"Whether  the  day  its  wonted  course  rene^^'ed 
Or  midnight  vigils  wrapt  the  world  in  shade. 
Her  tender  task  assiduous  she  pursued. 
To  soothe  his  anguish,  or  his  wants  to  aid. 

Blacklcjil. 

[  WOXDER,'"'  said  Miss  Peekout,  as  she  leaned  botli  her  hands 
©n  the  sill  of  the  front-window,  and  looked  up  and  down  ilie 
Street,  —  a  habit  in  which  she  indulged  herself  for  about  ten 
minutes,  after  she  had  washed  up  the  breakfast  things,  and  before 
she  trimmed  the  solar-lamp,  —  "I  wonder  who  that  slender  girl 
is  that  walks  by  here  every  morning,  with  that  feeble-looking  old 
man  leaning  on  her  arm !  I  alwa*ys  see  them  at  just  about  this 
time,  when  the  weather  and  walking  are  good.  She 's  a  nice 
child,  I  know,  and  seems  to  be  very  fond  of  the  old  man,  —  proba- 
bly her  grandfather.  I  notice  she 's  careful  to  leave  the  best  side 
of  the  walk  for  him,  and  she  watches  every  step  he  takes ;  she 
needs  to,  indeed,  for  he  totters  sadly.  Poor  little  thing!  she 
looks  pale  and  anxious;  I  wonder  if  she  takes  all  the  care  of  the 
old  man  !  "  But  they  are  quite  out  of  sight,  and  Miss  Peekout 
turns  round  to  wonder  whether  the  solar-lamp  does  n't  need  d 
new  wick. 

i  wonder'^  said  old  Mrs.  Grumble,  as  she  sat  at  her  window, 
a  liUlc  further  down  the  street,  "  if  I  should  live  to  be  old  and 
infirm  (Mrs.  Grumble  was  over  seventy,  but  as  yet  suffered  from 
no  infirmity  but  that  of  a  very  irritable  temper), —  I  wonder  if 
anybody  would  wait  upon  me,  and  take  care  of  me,  as  that  little 
girl  does  of  her  grandfather  !  No,  I  '11  warrant  not !  Who  can 
the  patient  little  creature  be  ?  " 

"  There,  look  Belle  "  said  one  young  girl  tc  another,  as  they 


/12 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


vvalkea  up  the  shady  side  of  the  street,  on  their  way  to  school 
"  there  '3  the  girl  that  we  meet  every  day  with  the  old  luan 
How  can  you  say  you  don't  think  she 's  pretty  ?    I  admire  hef 
looks  I" 

You  always  do  manage,  Kitty,  to  aduiire  people  that  every 
body  e]h'-3  thinks  are  horrid-looking." 

"  Horrii-looking  !  "  replied  Kitty,  in  a  provoked  tone  ;  "  she 
anything  but  horrid-looking !    Do  notice,  now,  Belle,  when  we 
meet  them,  she  has  the  sweetest  way  of  looking  up  in  the  old  man's 
face,  and  talking  to  him.    I  woTider  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ' 
Do  see  how  his  arm  shakes,  —  the  one  that 's  passed  through  hers." 

The  two  couples  are  now  close  to  each  other,  and  they  pass  in 
silence. 

"  DoTi't  yofit  think  she  has  an  interesting  face  ?  "  said  Kitty 
eagerly,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  She 's  got  handsome  eyes,"  answered  Belle.  I  don't  see 
anything  else  that  looks  interesting  about  her.  I  ivonder  if  she 
don't  hate  to  have  to  walk  in  the  street  with  that  old  grandfather  • 
trudorinnr  alon^r  so  slow,  with  the  sun  shininor  riizht  in  her  face,  and 
he  leaning  on  her  arm,  and  shaking  so  he  can  hardly  stand  on 
his  feet  I    I  would  n't  do  it  for  anything."  ' 

Why,  Belle  !  "  exclaimed  Kitty,  "  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  I 'm 
sure  I  pity  that  old  man  dreadfully." 

Lor  !  "  said  Belie,  "  what 's  the  use  of  pitying?  If  you  are 
[^oing  to  begin  to  pity,  you  '11  have  to  do  it  all  the  time.  Look,"  — 
and  hei^  Belle  touched  her  companion's  elbow,  —  "  there 's  AYillie 
Sullivan,  father's  clerk;  an't  he  a  beauty  ?  I  want  to  stop  and 
speak  to  him." 

But,  before  she  could  address  a  word  to  him,  Willie,  who  waa 
walking  very  fast,  passed  her  with  a  bow,  and  a  pleasant  "  Good- 
morning,  Miss  Isabel ; and,  ere  she  had  recovered  from  the  sur' 
piisc  and  disappointment,  was  some  rods  down  the  street. 
Polite  I  "  muttered  the  pretty  Isabel. 

Why,  Belle  I  do  see,'-  said  Kitty,  who  was  looking  back 
over  her  shoulder,  "he's  overtaken  the  old  man  and  my  in.i crests 
lag  little  gul.    Look,  —  pok !    He's  put  the  old  man's  othei 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Arm  tKiCagh  his,  and  thej  are  all  three  walking  off  together 
h  n't  that  qm^e  a  coincidence  ?  " 

Nothing  very  remarkable,"  replied  Belle,  who  seemed  a  litth 
annoyed.  "  I  suppose  they  are  persons  he 's  acquainted  with 
Come,  make  haste ;  we  shall  be  late  at  school." 

Reader  !  Do  you  wonder  who  they  are,  the  girl  and  the  old 
raan  ?  or,  have  you  already  conjectured  that  they  are  no  other 
than  Gerty  and  Trueman  Flint  ?  True  is  no  longer  the  brave, 
strong,  sturdy  protector  of  the  feeble,  lonely  little  child.  The 
caies  are  quite  reversed.  True  has  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  His 
strength  is  gone,  his  power  even  to  walk  alone.  He  sits  all  day 
ia  his  arm-chair,  or  on  the  old  settle,  when  he  is  not  out  walking 
with  Gerty.  The  blow  came  suddenly ;  struck  down  the  robust 
man,  and  left  him  feeble  as  a  child.  And  the  little  stranger,  the 
jrphan  girl,  who,  in  her  weakness,  her  loneliness  and  her  poverty, 
found  in  him  a  father  and  a  mother,  she  now  is  all  the  world  to 
him;  his  staff,  his  stay,  his  comfort  and  his  hope.  During  four 
or  Dve  years  that  he  has  cherished  the  frail  blossom,  she  has 
been  gaining  strength  for  the  tim.e  when  ke  should  be  the  leaning, 
ske  the  sustaining  power ;  and  when  the  time  cam.e, —  and  it  came 
full  soon,  — she  was  ready  to  respond  to  the  call.  With  the  sim- 
plicity of  a  child,  but  a  woman's  firmness  ;  with  the  stature  of  a 
child,  but  a  woman's  capacity ;  the  earnestness  of  a  child,  but  a 
woman's  perseverance, — from  morning  till  night,  the  faithful  little 
nurse  and  housekeeper  labors  untiringly  in  the  service  of  her 
first,  her  best  friend.  Ever  at  his  side,  ever  '^ttendin^  to  his 
wants,  and  yet  most  wonderfully  accomplishing  many  things 
which  he  never  sees  her  do,  she  seems,  indeed,  to  the  fond  old  raan, 
what  he  once  prophesied  she  would  become,  —  God's  em.bodied 
blessing  to  his  latter  years,  making  light  his  clo.dng  dity^y  and 
cheering  even  the  pathway  to  the  grave. 

Though  disease  had  robbed  True's  limbs  of  all  their  power, 
the  blast  had  happily  spared  his  mind,  which  was  clear  and 
tranquil  as  ever;  while  his  pious  heart  was  fixed  in  humble  trust 
on  that  God  whose  presence  and  love  he  had  ever  acknowledged, 
and  on  whom  he  so  fully  relied,  that  even  in  this  bitter  tria. 
he  was  able  to  say?  in  perfj  )t  submission  "  Thy  w*ll  not  miu?^ 
10^ 


114 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


be  done  !  "  LlttU  did  those  who  wondered,  as  day  after  day  thej 
watched  the  invalid  and  his  childish  guardian,  at  the  patience 
and  self-sacrifice  of  the  devoted  girl,  little  did  they  understand 
the  emotions  of  Gerty's  loving,  grateful  heart.  Little  did  they 
realize  the  joy  it  was  to  her  to  sustain  and  support  her  beloved 
friend.  Little  did  she,  who  would  have  been  too  proud  to  walk 
with  the  old  paralytic,  know  what  Gerty's  pride  was  made  of. 
She  would  have  wondered,  had  she  been  told  that  the  heart  of 
the  girl,  whom  she  would  have  pitied,  could  she  have  spared  time 
to  pity  (2712/  one,  had  never  swelled  with  so  fervent  and  noble  a 
satisfaction  as  when,  with  the  trembling  old  man  leaning  on  her 
arm,  she  gloried  in  the  burden. 

The  outward  world  was  nothing  at  all  to  her.    She  cared  not  ^ 
for  the  conjectures  of  the  idle,  the  curious  or  the  vain.  She 
lived  for  True  now ;  she  might  almost  be  said  to  live  i?i  him,  &a 
wholly  were  her  thoughts  bent  on  promoting  his  happiness,  pro- 
longing and  blessing  his  days. 

It  had  not  long  been  thus.  Only  about  two  months  previous 
to  the  morning  of  which  we  have  been  speaking  had  True  been 
stricken  down  with  this  weighty  affliction.  He  had  been  in  fail- 
ing health,  but  had  still  been  able  to  attend  to  all  his  duties  and 
%bors,  until  one  day  in  the  month  of  June,  when  Gerty  went 
into  his  room,  and  found,  to  her  surprise,  that  he  had  not  risen, 
although  it  was  much  later  than  his  usual  hour.  On  going  to 
the  bed-side  and  speaking  to  him,  she  perceived  that  he  looked 
strangely,  and  had  lost  the  power  of  replying  to  her  questions. 
Bewildered  and  frightened,  she  ran  to  call  Mrs.  Sullivan.  A 
physician  was  summoned,  the  case  pronounced  one  of  paralysis, 
and  for  a  time  there  seemed  reason  to  fear  that  it  would  prove 
fatal.-  He  soon,  however,  began  to  am^nd,  recovered  his  speech, 
and  in  a  week  or  two  was  well  enough  to  walk  about,  with  Gerty's 
assistance. 

The  doctor  had  recommended  as  much  gentle  exercise  as  pos- 
rAh\Q ;  and  every  pleasant  morning,  before  the  day  grew  warm, 
Gerty  presented  herself  bonneted  and  equipped  for  those  walks, 
which,  unknown  to  her,  excited  so  much  observation.  She  usually 
took  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  make  such  Little  household 


THfi  LAMPLIGHTER, 


11^ 


purchase*:  as  were  necessary,  that  she  might  not  be  compelled  to 
go  out  again  and  leave  True  alone ;  that  being  a  thing  she  a3 
»nuch  as  possible  avoided  doing. 

On  the  occasion  already  alluded  to.  Willie  accompanied  them 
as  far  as  the  provision-shop,  which  was  their  destination  ;  and, 

having  seen  True  comfortably  seated,  proceeded  to  Wharf, 

while  Gerty  stepped  up  to  the  counter  to  bargain  for  the  dinner. 
She  purchased  a  bit  of  veal  suitable  for  broth,  gazed  wishfully 
at  some  tempting  summer  vegetables,  turned  away  and  sighed. 
She  held  in  her  hand  the  wallet  which  contained  all  their  money ; 
it  had  now  been  in  her  keeping  for  some  weeks,  and  was  growing 
ii4it,  so  she  knew  it  was  no  use  to  think  about  the  vegetables; 
a  id  she  sighed,  because  she  remembered  how  much  Uncle  True 
cajoyed  the  green  peas  last  year. 

"  How  much  is  the  meat  ? "  asked  she  of  the  rosy-cheeked 
L  itcher,  who  was  \v  rapping  it  up  in  a  paper. 

He  named  the  sum.  It  was  very  little ;  so  little  that  it  almost 
'<3em.ed  to  Gerty  as  if  he  had  seen  into  her  purse,  and  her  thoughts 
00,  and  knew  how  glad  she  would  be  that  it  did  not  cost  any 
lore.  As  he  handed  her  the  change,  he  leaned  over  the  counter; 
nd  asked,  in  an  under  tone,  what  kind  of  nourishment  Mr.  Flint 
vas  able  to  take. 

"  The  doctor  said  any  wholesome  food,"  replied  Gerty. 

"  Don't  you  think  he 'd  relish  some  green  peas  ?  I 've  got  some 
drst-rate  ones,  fresh  from  the  country ;  and,  if  you  think  he 'd  eat 
'em,  I  should  like  to  send  you  some.  My  boy  shall  take  round 
half  a  peck  or  so,  and  I  'II  put  the  meat  right  in  the  hxmo 
basket." 

Thank  you,"  said  Gerty ;  "he  likes  green  peas." 

Very  well,  very  well !  Then  I  '11  send  him  some  beauties  " 
and  ho  turned  away  to  wait  upon  another  customer,  so  quick  thai 
Gerty  thought  he  did  not  see  how  the  color  came  into  her  face 
and  the  tears  into  her  eyes.  But  he  did  see,  and  that  was  th^ 
reasi  n  he  turned  away  so  quickly.  He  was  a  clever  fellow,  that 
rosy-cheeke  I  butch cv  ! 

True  had  an  o"  eel  lent  appetite,  eijjoyed  and  praised  the  dinnei 
exceedingly  and,  after  ea'ii:g  heartily  of  it,  fellasleej  in  his  cbuiPf 


116 


THE  LA3IPLIGHTE11. 


The  moDient  he  awoke,  Gerty  sprung  to  his  bide,  exclairaiDg. 
"Uncle  True,  here's  Miss  Emily!  —  here's  dear  Miss  Emily 
eome  to  see  you  !  " 

"  The  Lord  bless  you  my  dear,  dear  young  lady '  "  said  True, 
tryiiig  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  go  towards  her. 

Don't  rise,  Mr.  Flint,  I  beg  you  will  not,"  exclaimcvl  Emily, 
whose  quick,  ear  perceived  the  motion.  *'  From  what  Gerty  tells 
me,  I  fear  you  are  not  able.  Please  give  me  a  chair,  Gerty, 
nearer  to  Mr.  Flint." 

She  drew  near,  took  True's  hand,  but  looked  inexpressibly 
shocked  as  she  observed  how  tremulous  it  bad  become. 

Ah,  Miss  Emily  !  "  said  he ;  "I 'm  not  the  same  man  as  when 
I  saw  you  last ;  the  Lord  has  given  me  a  warnin',  and  I  shan't 
06  here  long  !  " 

"  I  *m  so  sorry  I  did  not  know  of  this  !  "  said  Emily.  "  I 
should  have  come  to  see  you  before,  but  I  never  heard  of  your 
illness  until  to-day.  George,  my  father's  man,  saw  you  and  Ger- 
trude at  a  shop  this  morning,  and  mentioned  it  to  me  as  soon  as 
he  came  out  of  town.  I  have  been  telling  this  little  girl  that  she 
bhould  have  sent  me  word." 

Gerty  was  standing  by  True's  chair,  smoothing  his  gray  locks 
with  her  slender  fingers.  As  Emily  mentioned  her  name,  he 
turned  and  looked  at  her.  0,  what  a  look  of  love  he  gave  her ! 
Gerty  never  forgot  it. 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  he,  "'twas  no  need  for  anybody  to  be 
troubled.  The  Lord  provided  for  me,  his  own  self  All  the  doc- 
tors and  nurses  in  the  land  couldn't  have  done  half  as  much  for 
me  as  this  little  gal  o'  mine.  It  wan't  at  all  in  my  mind,  some 
four  or  five  years  gone,  —  when  I  brought  the  little  barefoot  mite 
of  a  thing  to  my  home,  and  when  she  was  sick  and  e'en-a-'most 
dyin'  in  this  very  room,  and  I  carried  her  in  my  arms  night  and 
day,  —  ti.at  her  turn  would  come  so  soon.  Ah!  I  little  thought 
then,  Miss  Emily,  how  the  Lord  would  lay  me  low,  —  how  those 
very  same  feet  would  run  about  in  my  service,  how  her  bii  of  a 
hand  would  come  in  the  dark  nights  to  smooth  ray  pillow,  and  I 'd 
go  about  daytimes  leaning  on  her  little  arm.  Truly  God's  waja 
ai  e  not  like  oui  ways,  nor  his  thoughts  like  our  thoughts." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


««0,  "DacTp  True  ! "  said  Gerty,  "  I  don  \  lo  much  for  you ;  I 
«^lsli  I  could  do  a  great  deal  more.  I  wi-u  I  could  make  you 
etrong  again." 

'*  I  daresay  you  do,  my  darlin',  but  that  can't  be  in  this  world , 
70U 've  given  me  what 's  far  better  than  strength  0'  body.  Yea, 
Miss  Emily,"  added  he,  turning  again  towards  the  blind  girl,  "  it 'a 
you  we  have  to  thank  for  all  the  comfort  we  enjoy.  I  lo\cd  my 
little  birdie  ;  but  I  was  a  foolish  man,  and  I  should  ha'  spiled  her. 
You  knew  better  what  was  for  her  good,  and  mine  too.  You 
made  her  what  she  is  now,  one  of  the  lambs  of  Christ,  a  hand- 
maiden of  the  Lord.  If  anybody 'd  told  me,  six  months  ago, 
that  I  should  become  a  poor  cripple,  and  sit  in  my  chair  all  day, 
and  not  know  who  was  going  to  furnish  a  livin'  for  me  or  birdie 
either,  I  should  ha'  said  I  never  could  bear  my  lot  with  patience, 
•:r  keep  up  any  heart  at  all.  But  I 've  learned  a  lesson  from  this 
'ittle  one.  When  I  first  got  so  I  could  speak,  after  the  shock,  and 
fell  what  was  in  my  mind,  I  was  so  mightily  troubled  a'  thinkin' 
of  my  sad  case,  and  Gerty  with  nobody  to  work  or  do  anything 
for  her,  that  I  took  on  bad  enough,  and  said,  *  What  shall  we  do 
now  ?  —  what  shall  we  do  now  ? '  And  then  she  whispered  in  my 
car,  '  God  will  take  care  of  us.  Uncle  True ! '  And  when  I  for- 
got the  sayin',  and  asked,  '  Who  will  feed  and  clothe  us  now  i ' 
she  said  again,  'The  Lord  will  provide.'  And,  in  my  deepest 
distress  of  all,  when  one  night  I  was  full  of  anxious  thougiits 
about  my  child,  I  said  aloud,  '  If  I  die,  who  will  take  care  of 
Gerty  ? '  the  little  thing,  that  I  supposed  was  sound  asleep  in  her 
bed,  laid  her  head  down  beside  me  and  said,  '  Uncle  True,  when  I 
was  turned  out  into  the  dark  street  all  alone,  and  had  no  friends 
nor  any  home,  my  Heavenly  Father  sent  you  to  me;  and  now,  if  he 
wants  you  to  come  to  him,  and  is  not  ready  to  take  me  too,  he 
will  send  somebody  else  to  take  care  of  me  the  rest  of  the  time  I 
stay.'  After  that.  Miss  Emily,  I  gave  up  worryin'  any  more. 
Her  words,  and  the  blessed  teachin's  of  the  Holy  Book  that  sho 
reads  me  every  day,  have  sunk  deep  into  my  heart,  and  I  'ni  at 
peace. 

**  I  used  to  think  that,  if  I  H/ed  and  had  my  strength  ppared 
vne.  Gertj  WDuld  be  able  to  go  to  school  and  get  a  sight  0'  ^aruia 


118 


THE  LAMPLIGUTElt» 


tor  s.ie  has  a  nateral  lurch  for  it,  and  it  comes  easy  to  lier.  She 
but  a  slendei  child,  and  I  never  could  bear  the  thought  of  hei 
bein'  driv  to  hard  work  for  a  livin';  she  don't  seem  made  for  it, 
somehow.  I  hoped,  when  she  grew  up,  to  see  her  a  schoolmistress, 
like  Miss  Browne,  or  somethin'  in  that  line  ;  but  I 've  done  bein' 
vexed  about  it  now.  I  know,  as  she  says,  it 's  all  for  the  best,  or 
it  would  n't  be." 

When  he  finished  speaking,  Gerty,  whose  face  had  been  hid 
against  his  shoulder,  looked  up  and  said,  bravely,  "  0,  Uncle 
True,  I 'm  sure  I  can  do  alm.ost  any  kind  of  work.  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van says  I  sew  very  well,  and  I  can  learn  to  be  a  milliner  or  a 
dressmaker  ;  that  is  n't  hard  work." 

Mr.  Flint,"  said  Emily,  "  would  you  be  willing  to  trust  your 
^hild  with  me  ?  If  you  should  be  taken  from  her,  would  you  feel 
as  if  she  were  safe  in  my  charge  ?  " 

^'  Miss  Emily,"  said  True,  "  would  I  think  her  safe  in  angel- 
keepin'  ?  I  should  believe  her  ia  little  short  o'  that,  if  she  could 
have  you  to  watch  over  her.'* 

"  0,  do  not  say  that,"  said  Miss  Emily,  "  or  I  shall  be  afraid 
to  undertake  so  solemn  a  trust.  I  know  too  well  that  my  want 
of  sight,  mj  ill-health  and  my  inexperience,  almost  unfit  me  for 
the  care  of  a  child  like  Gerty.  Bat,  since  you  approve  of"  the 
teaching  I  have  already  given  her,  and  are  so  kind  as  to  think  a 
great  deal  better  of  me  than  I  deserve,  I  know  you  will  at  least 
believe  in  the  sincerity  of  my  wish  to  be  of  use  to  her  ;  and,  if  it 
will  be  any  comfort  to  you  to  know  that  in  case  of  your  death  I 
will  gladly  take  Gerty  to  my  home,  see  that  she  is  well  educated, 
and,  as  long  as  I  live,  provide  for  and  take  care  of  her,  you 
have  my  solemn  assurance  (and  here  she  laid  her  hand  on  his), 
that  it  shall  be  done,  and  that  to  the  best  of  my  ability  I  will  try 
to  make  her  happy." 

Gertj-'s  first  impulse  was  to  rush  towards  Emily,  and  fling  her 
arms  arDund  her  neck;  but  she  was  arrested  in  the  act.  for  she 
observed  that  True  was  wcr:ping  like  an  infant,  in  an  instant  his 
feeble  head  was  resting  upon  her  bosom  ;  her  hand  was  wiping 
away  tl-  ^  great  \cars  that  had  rushed  to  his  eyes.  It  was  an  easj 


TIIE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


111. 


faak,  for  they  were  tears  of  joy,  —  of  a  joy  tliat  had  quite  uu- 
nervad  him  in  his  present  state  of  prostration  and  ueakness. 

The  proposal  was  so  utterly  foreign  to  his  thoug  it's  or  expecta- 
tions, that  it  seemed  to  him  a  hope  too  hright  to  be  relied  upon  ; 
and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  an  idea  occurring  to  him  which 
seemed  to  increase  his  doubts,  he  gave  utterance  to  it  in  the 
words,  "But  your  father,  Miss  Emily!  —  Mr.  Graham! — ^  he 's 
partickler,  and  not  over-young  now.  I'm  afeared  he  wculdii't 
like  a  little  gal  in  the  house." 

"  My  father  is  indulgent  to  replied  Emily;  "he  would 

not  object  to  any  plan  I  had  at  heart,  and  I  have  become  so  much 
attached  to  Gertrude  that  she  would  be  of  great  use  and  comfort 
to  me.  I  trust,  Mr.  Flint,  that  you  will  recover  a  portion  at 
least  of  your  health  and  strength,  and  be  spared  to  her  for  many 
a  year  yet ;  but,  in  order  that  you  may  in  no  case  feel  any  anx- 
iety on  her  account,  I  take  this  opportunity  to  tell  you  that,  if  I 
should  outlive  you,  she  will  be  sure  of  a  home  with  me.'' 

Ah,  Miss  Emily !  "  said  the  old  man,  "  my  time 's  about  out, 
I  feel  right  sure  o'  that ;  and,  since  you  're  willin',  you  '11  soon  be 
called  to  take  charge  on  her.  I  have  n't  forgot  how  tossed  I  waa 
in  my  mind,  the  day  after  I  brought  her  home  with  me,  with 
thinkin'  that  p'raps  I  was  n't  fit  to  undertake  the  care  of  such  a 
little  thing,  and  had  n't  ways  to  make  her  comfortable  ;  and  then, 
Miss  Emily,  do  you  remember  you  said  to  me,  *  You 've  done 
quite  right;  the  Lord  will  bless  and  reward  you '  ?  I 've  thought 
many  a  time  since  that  you  was  a  true  prophet,  and  that  your 
words  were,  what  I  thought  'em  then,  a  whisper  right  from 
heaven!  And  now  you  talk  o'  doin'  the  same  thing  yourself; 
and  I,  that  am  just  goin'  home  to  God,  and  feel  as  if  I  read  hia 
ways  clearer  than  ever  afore,  /  tell  you,  Miss  Emily,  that  you  're 
doin'  right,  too  ;  and,  if  the  Lord  rewards  you  as  he  has  dona 
me,  there  '11  come  a  time  when  this  child  will  pay  you  back  in 
love  and  care  all  you  ever  do  for  her.  —  Gerty .  ' 

"  She 's  not  here,"  said  Emily ;  "  I  heard  her  run  into  her  own 
room." 

*'  Poor  birdie  !  "  said  True,  "  she  does  n't  like  to  hear  o'  my 
leavin'  her ;  I 'm  sad  to  think  how  «iome  day  soon  she  '11  almost 


120 


THE  LA3Ij»LIGHTER. 


eob  her  heart  away  over  her  old  uncle.  Never  hmd  now!  I  was 
goin'  to  bid  her  be  a  good  child  to  you ;  but  I  think  she  will, 
without  biddin';  and  I  can  say  my  say  to  her  another  time.  Good- 
by,  my  dear  young  lady;"  —  for  Emily  had  risen  to  go,  and 
George  the  man-servant,  was  waiting  at  the  door  for  her,  —  "  if 
I  never  see  you  again,  remember  that  you 've  made  an  old  man 
so  happy  that  he 's  nothing  in  this  world  left  to  wish  for ;  and 
that  you  carry  with  you  a  dyin'  man's  best  blessin',  and  hig 
prayer  that  God  may  grant  such  perfect  peace  to  your  last  days 
as  now  He  does  to  mine." 

That  evening,  when  True  had  already  retired  to  rest,  and 
Gerty  had  finished  reading  aloud  in  her  little  Bible,  as  she 
always  did  at  bed-time,  True  called  her  to  him,  and  asked  her, 
as  he  had  often  done  of  late,  to  repeat  his  favorite  prayer  for 
the  sick.  She  knelt  at  his  bed-side,  and  with  a  solemn  and 
touching  earnestness  fulfilled  his  request. 

"Now,  darlin,'  the  prayer  for  the  dyin';  —  is  n't  there  such  a  one 
in  your  little  book  ?  " 

Gerty  trembled.  There  was  such  a  prayer,  a  beautiful  one  ;  and 
the  thoughtful  child,  to  whom  the  idea  of  death  was  familiar, 
knew  it  by  heart,  —  but  could  she  repeat  the  words  ?  Could  sh5 
command  her  voice  ?  Her  whole  frame  shook  with  agitation  ; 
but  Uncle  True  wished  to  hear  it,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to 
him,  and  she  would  try.  Concentrating  all  her  energy  and  self- 
command,  she  began,  and,  gaining  strength  as  she  proceeded,  went 
on  to  the  end.  Once  or  twice  her  voice  faltered,  but  with  new 
efi*ort  she  succeeded,  in  spite  of  the  great  bunches  in  her  throat  • 
and  her  voice  sounded  so  clear  and  calm  that  Uncle  True's  devo- 
tional spirit  was  not  once  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  the  girl's 
sufferings  ;  for,  fortunately,  he  could  not  hear  how  her  heart  beat 
and  throbbed,  and  threatened  to  burst. 

She  did  not  rise  at  the  conclusion  of  the  prayer,  —  she  could 
not,  —  but  remained  kneeling,  her  head  buried  in  the  bed-clothes. 
For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  solemn  stillness  in  the  room*  tnec 
the  old  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

She  looked  up. 

"  You  love  Miss  Emily,  don't  you,  birdie  ? " 


THE  Lamplighter. 


121 


Yes,  indeed.*' 

'*  You  '11  be  a  good  cliild  to  her,  when  I gone  ? " 

"  0,  Uncle  True  !  "  sobbed  Gerty,  you  must  n't  leave  mc!  1 
can't  live  without  you,  dear  Uncle  True !  " 

"  It  is  God's  will  to  take  me,  Gerty ;  he  has  always  been  good 
to  us,  and  we  must  n't  doubt  him  now.  IVIiss  Emily  can  do  more 
foi  you  than  I  could,  and  you  '11  be  very  happy  with  her." 

JN'  0, 1  shan't !  —  I  shan't  ever  be  happy  again  in  this  world  ! 
I  never  was  happy  until  I  came  to  you ;  and  now,  if  you  die,  I 
wish  I  could  die  too !  " 

"  You  must  n't  wish  that,  darlin' ;  you  are  young,  and  must  try 
to  do  good  in  the  world,  and  bide  your  time.  I 'm  an  old  man, 
and  only  a  trouble  now." 

"No,  no.  Uncle  True!  "  said  Gerty,  earnestly  ;  "  you  are  no^ 
a  trouble,  you  never  could  be  a  trouble!  I  wish  I'd  never  been 
so  much  trouble  to  youJ^' 

"  So  far  from  that,  birdie,  God  knows  you  've  long  been  my 
heart's  delight !  It  only  pains  me  now  to  think  that  you  're  a 
spendin'  all  your  time,  and  slavin'  here  at  home,  instead  of  goin 
to  school,  as  you  used  to ;  but,  0  !  we  all  depend  on  each  other 
so  ! — first  on  God,  and  then  on  each  other  I  And  that  'minds  me. 
Gerty,  of  what  I  was  goin'  to  say.  I  feel  as  if  the  Lord  would 
call  me  soon,  sooner  thai^  you  think  for  now ;  and,  at  first,  you  '11 
cry,  and  be  sore  vexed,  no  doubt ;  but  Miss  Emily  will  take  you 
with  her,  and  she  '11  tell  you  blessed  things  to  comfort  you  ;  —  how 
we  shall  all  meet  again  and  be  happy  in  that  world  where  there 's 
no  partin's  ;  and  Willie  '11  do  evervthing  he  can  to  help  you  in  yom 
Borrer ;  and  in  time  you  '11  be  able  to  smile  again.  At  'first,  and 
p'raps  for  a  long  time,  Gerty,  you  '11  be  a  care  to  Miss  Emily, 
and  she  '11  have  to  do  a  deal  for  you  in  the  way  o'  schoolin', 
clothin',  and  so  on ;  and  what  I  want  to  tell  you  is,  that  Uncle 
True  expects  you  '11  be  as  good  as  can  be,  and  do  just  what  Miss 
Emily  says ;  and,  by  and  by,  may  be,  when  you  're  bigger  and 
older,  you  '11  be  able  to  do  somethin'  for  her.  She 's  blind,  you 
know,  and  you  must  be  eyes  for  her  ;  and  she 's  not  over  strong, 
tnd  you  must  lend  a  helpin'  hand  to  her  weakness,  just  as  you  do 
to  mine ;  and,  if  you  'rc  good  and  patient,  God  will  make  your 
11 

w 


122 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


heart  light  at  last,  while  you  're  only  tryin'  to  make  other  folks 
happy ;  and  when  you  're  sad  and  troubled  (for  everybody  is,  some- 
times), then  think  of  old  Uncle  True,  and  how  he  used  to  say, 
*  Cheer  up,  birdie,  for  I'm  of  the  'pinion  'twill  all  come  o  it 
right,  at  last.'  There,  don't  feel  bad  about  it;  go  to  bed,  darlin', 
and  to-morrow  we  '11  have  a  nice  walk,  —  and  Willie  'sgoin'.  wjth 
us,  you  know." 

Gerty  tried  to  cheer  up,  for  True's  sake,  and  went  to  bed.  She 
did  not  sleep  for  some  hours ;  but  when,  at  last,  she  did  fall  i?jto 
a  quiet  slumber,  it  continued  unbroken  until  morning. 

She  dreaii^ed  that  morning  was  already  come;  that  she  and 
Uncle  True  and  Willie  were  taking  a  pleasant  walk ;  that 
Uncle  True  was  strong  and  well  again,  —  his  eye  bright,  his  step 
firm,  and  Willie  and  herself  laughing  and  happy. 

And,  while  she  dreamed  the  beautiful  dream,  little  thinking 
that  her  first  friend  and  she  should  no  longer  tread  life's  paths 
together,  the  messenger  came, —  a  gentle,  noiseless  messenger,  — 
and,  in  the  still  night,  while  the  world  was  asleep,  took  the  sou] 
of  good  old  True  and  carried  it  Lome  to  God  ! 


OHAPTER  XVI. 


The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature's  hand  ; 
And,  haply,  there  tae  spirits  of  the  blest 
Dwell,  clothed  in  radiance,  their  immortal  vest. 

WORDSTTGETH'. 

Two  months  have  passed  since  Trueraan  Flint's  death,  and 
Gertrude  has  for  a  week  been  domesticated  in  Mr.  Graham's 
family.  It  was  through  the  newspaper  that  Emily  first  heard  of 
the  little  girl's  sudden  loss,  and,  immediately  acquainting  her 
father  with  her  wishes  and  plans  concerning  the  child,  she  found 
she  had  no  opposition  to  fear  from  him.  He  reminded  her,  how- 
ever, of  the  inconvenience  that  would  attend  Gertrude's  coming  to 
them  at  once,  as  they  were  soon  to  start  on  a  visit  to  some  distant 
relatives,  from  which  they  would  not  return  until  it  was  nearly 
time  to  remove  to  the  city  for  the  winter.  Emily  felt  the  force 
of  this  objection;  for,  although  Mrs.  Ellis  would  be  at  home 
during  their  absence,  she  knew  that,  even  were  she  willing  to 
undertake  the  charge  of  Gertrude,  she  would  be  a  very  unfit 
person  to  console  her  in  her  time  of  sorrow  and  affliction. 

This  thought  troubled  Emily,  who  now  considered  herself  the 
orphan  girl's  sole  protector ;  and  she  regretted  much  that  this 
unusual  journey  should  take  place  so  inopportunely.  There  was 
no  help  for  it,  however,  for  Mr.  Graham's  plans  were  arranged, 
and  must  not  be  interfered  with,  unless  she  would  make  Ger- 
trude's coming,  at  the  very  outset,  unwelcome  and  disagreeable. 
She  started  for  town,  therefore,  the  next  morning,  quite  unde- 
cided what  course  to  pursue,  under  the  circumstances. 

The  day  was  Sunday,  but  Emily's  errand  was  one  of  charity 
and  love  and  would  not  admit  of  delay ;  and,  an  hour  before  the 
time  for  morning  service,  Mrs.  Sullivan,  who  stood  at  her  open 


124 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


window,  wbicli  looked  out  upon  the  street,  saw  Mr.  Gratara'A 
carryall  stop  at  the  door.  She  ran  to  meet  Emily,  and,  with  the 
politeness  ana  kindness  always  observable  in  her,  waited  upon  her 
into  her  neat  parlor,  guided  her  to  a  comfortable  seat,  placed  in 
her  hand  a  fan  (for  the  weather  was  excessively  warm),  and  then 
proceeded  to  tell  how  thankful  she  was  to  see  her,  and  how  sorry 
she  felt  that  G-ertrude  was  not  at  homo.  Emily  wondcringly 
asked  where  Gertrude  was,  and  learned  th^it  she  was  outwalk- 
ing with  Willie.  A  succession  of  inquiries  ^^..^  od,  and  a  long 
and  touching  story  was  told  by  Mrs.  Sullivan  of  Gertrude's 
agony  of  grief,  the  impossibility  of  comforting  her,  and  the  fears 
the  kind  little  woman  had  entertained  lest  the  girl  would  die  of 
sorrow, 

"  I  could  n't  do  anything  with  her  myself,"  said  she.  "  There 
she  sat,  day  after  day,  last  week,  on  her  little  cricket,  by  Uncle 
True's  easy-chair,  with  her  head  on  the  cushion,  and  I  couldn't 
get  her  to  move  or  eat  a  thing.  She  did  n't  appear  to  hear  me 
when  I  spoke  to  her ;  and,  if  I  tried  to  move  her,  she  did  n'fc 
struggle  (for  she  was  very  quiet),  but  she  seemed  just  like  a  dead 
weight  in  my  hands ;  and  I  could  n't  bear  to  make  her  come  away 
into  my  room,  though  I  knew  it  would  change  the  scene,  and  be 
better  for  her.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  Willie,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done,  I  was  getting  so  worried  about  the  poor  child ; 
but  he  knows  how  to  manage  her  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do. 
When  he  is  at  home,  we  get  along  very  wellj  for  he  take^  hef 
right  up  in  his  arms  (he 's  very  strong,  and  she 's  as  light  as  a  I 
feather,  you  know),  and  either  carries  her  into  some  other  room 
or  out  into  the  yard;  and  somehow  he  contrives  to  cheer  her  up 
wonderfully.  He  persuades  her  to  eat,  and  in  the  evenings,  when 
he  comes  home  from  the  store,  takes  long  walks  with  her.  Now, 
last  evening  they  went  way  over  Chelsea  Bridge,  where  it  was 
cool  and  pleasant,  you  know ;  and  I  suppose  he  diverted  hei 
attention  and  amused  her,  for  she  came  home  brifrhter  than  I 've 
seen  her  at  all.  and  quite  tired.  I  got  her  to  go  to  bed  in  my 
room,  and  she  skpt  soundly  all  night,  so  that  she  really  looks  quite 
like  herself  to-day.    They 've  gone  ou'  again  this  morning,  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


t)8ing  Sunday,  and  Willie  at  home  all  day,  I  Ve  no  doubt  he  11 
keep  her  spirits  up,  if  arybodj  can." 

"  Willie  shows  very  good  judgment,  '  said  Emily,  "  in  trying 
change  the  scene  for  her,  and  divert  her  thoughts.  I 'm  thank- 
ful she  has  had  such  kind  friends.  I  promised  Mr.  Flint  she 
^ihould  have  a  home  with  me  when  he  was  taken  away,  and,  not 
knowing  of  his  death  until  now,  I  consider  it  a  great  favor  to  mj- 
«ielf,  as  well  as  her,  that  you  have  taken  such  excellent  care  of 
her.  I  felt  sure  you  had  been  all  goodness,  or  it  would  have 
given  me  grxat  regret  that  I  had  not  heard  of  True's  deatn  before." 

"  0,  Miss  Emily  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "  Gertrude  is  so  dear 
to  us,  and  we  have  suffered  so  much  in  seeing  her  suffer,  that  it 
was  a  kindness  to  ourselves  to  do  all  we  could  to  comfort  her. 
Why,  I  think  she  and  Willie  could  not  love  each  other  better,  if 
they  were  own  brother  and  sister ;  and  Willie  and  Uncle  True 
were  great  friends ;  indeed,  we  shall  all  miss  him  very  much.  My 
Did  father  doesn't  say  much  about  it,  but  I  can  see  he's  very 
down-hearted." 

More  conversation  followed,  in  the  course  of  which  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van informed  Emity  that  a  cousin  of  hers,  a  farmer's  wife,  living 
In  the  country,  about  twenty  miles  from  Boston,  had  invited 
bLem  all  to  come  and  pass  a  week  or  two  with  her  at  the  farm, 
and,  as  Willie  was  now  to  enjoy  his  usual  summer  vacation,  they 
proposed  accepting  the  invitation. 

She  spoke  of  Gertrude's  accompanying  them  as  a  matter  ot 
course,  and  enlarged  upon  the  advantage  it  would  be  to  her  to 
breathe  the  country  air,  and  ramble  about  the  fields  and  woodb, 
after  all  the  fatigue  and  confinement  she  had  endured. 

Emily,  finding  from  her  inquiries  that  Gertrude  would  be  a 
welcome  and  expected  guest,  cordially  approved  of  the  visit,  and 
also  arranged  with  Mrs.  Sullivan  that  she  should  remain  under 
her  care  until  Mr.  Graham  removed  to  Boston  for  the  winter. 
She  was  then  obliged  to  leave,  without  waiting  foi  Gertrude's  re- 
turn, though  she  left  many  a  kind  message  for  her,  and  placed  in 
Mrs.  Sullivan's  hands  a  suffi^cient  sum  of  money  to  provide  for 
all  her  wants  and  expenses. 

Gertrude  went  into  the  country,  and  abundance  of  nDvelty,  of 
11* 


126 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


country  fare,  l.jaltliful  exercise,  and  heartfelt  kindness  and  symp*a* 
thy,  brought  tl:e  color  into  her  cheek,  and  calmness  and  compusurei 
if  not  happiness,  into  her  heart. 

Soon  after  the  Sullivans'  return  from  their  excursion,  ihe  Gra- 
Qams  removed  to  the  city,  and,  as  we  have  said  before,  Gertrude 
nad  now  been  with  them  about  a  week. 

Are  you  still  standing  at  the  window,  Gertrude  ?  Wha 
are  you  doing,  dear  ?  " 

"  I 'm  watching  to  see  the  lamps  lit.  Miss  Emily." 
But  they  will  not  be  lit  at  all.    The  moon  will  rise  at  eight 
odock,  and  light  the  streets  sufficiently  for  the  rest  of  the  nighc." 

"  I  don't  mean  the  street-lamps." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  child?"  said  Emily,  coming  towards 
the  window,  and  lightly  resting  a  hand  on  each  of  Gertrude's 
shoulders. 

"  I  m.ean  the  stars,  dear  Miss  Emily.  0,  how  I  wish  you  could 
see  them  too  i  " 

"  Are  they  very  bright  ?  " 

"  0,  they  are  beautiful!  and -there  are  so  many!  The  sky  is 
as  full  as  it  can  be."  * 

"  How  well  I  remember  when  I  used  to  stand  at  this  very  win- 
dow, and  look  at  them  as  you  are  doing  now !  It  seems  to  me  as 
if  I  saw  them  this  moment,  I  know  so  well  how  they  look." 

"  I  love  the  stars,  —  all  of  them,"  said  Gertrude ;  *'  but  my  own 
star  I  love  the  best." 

"  Which  do  you  call  yours  ?  " 

"That  splendid  one,  there,  over  the  church-steeple;  it  shines 
into  my  room  every  night,  and  looks  me  in  the  face.  Miss  Lmily 
(and  here  Gertrude  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper),  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  that  star  were  lit  on  purpose  for  me.  I  think  Uncle 
True  lights  it  e^  cry  night.  always  feel  as  if  he  were  smiling 
up  thcra  and  saying,  *  See,  Gerty,  I 'm  lighting  the  lamp  for 
you.'  Dear  Uncle  True !  Miss  Emily,  do  you  think  he  loves  me 
oow  ?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed,  Gertrude;  and  I  think,  if  you  make  him  an  ex- 
ample, and  try  to  live  aa  good  and  patient  a  life  as  he  did,  that 
iiQ  wiL  really  be  a  lamp  to  your  feet  and  as  bright  a  light  to 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


127 


four  path  as  if  i>  face  were  shining  down  upon  you  through  the 
gtar." 

"  I  was  patient  and  good  when  I  lived  with  him ;  at  least,  1 
almost  always  was ;  and  I 'm  good  when  I 'm  with  you ;  but  I 
don't  like  Mrs.  Ellis.  She  tries  to  plague  me,  and  she  makes  me 
cross,  and  then  I  get  angry,  and  don't  know  what  I  do  or  say. 
I  did  not  mean  to  be  impertinent  to  her  to-day,  and  I  wish  I  had  n't 
slammed  the  door ;  but  how  could  I  help  it.  Miss  Emily,  when 
she  told  me,  right  before  Mr.  Graham,  that  I  tore  up  the  .^ast 
night's  Journal,  and  I  know  that  I  did  not  ?  It  was  an  old  paper 
that  she, saw  me  tying  your  slippers  up  in,  and  I  am  almost  sure 
that  she  lit  the  library  fire  with  that  very  Journal,  herself;  but 
Mr.  Graham  will  always  think  I  did  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  Gertrude,  that  you  had  some  reason  to  feel 
provoked,  and  I  believe  you  when  you  say  that  you  were  not 
the  person  to  blame  for  the  loss  of  the  newspaper.  But  you 
must  remember,  my  dear,  that  there  is  no  merit  in  being  patient 
and  good-tempered,  when  there  is  nothing  to  irritate  you.  I  want 
you  to  learn  to  bear  even  injustice,  without  losing  your  self-con- 
trol. You  know  'Mrs.  Ellis  has  been  here  a  number  of  years ; 
she  has  had  everything  her  own  way,  and  is  not  used  to  young 
people  She  felt,  when  you  came,  that  it  was  bringing  new  care 
and  trouble  upon  her,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  when  things  go 
wrong  she  should  sometimes  think  you  in  fault.  She  is  a  very 
faithful  woman,  very  kind  and  attentive  to  me,  and  very  import- 
ant to  my  father.  It  will  make  me  unhappy  if  I  have  any  reason 
to  fear  that  you  and  she  will  not  live  pleasantly  together." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  make  you  unhappy ;  I  do  not  want  to  be  a 
ircublc  to  anybody,"  said  Gertrude,  with  some  excitement ;  "  I  'U 
go  away  .  I  '11  go  off  somewhere,  where  you  will  never  see  ma 
again  ! " 

Gertrude  !  "  said  Emily,  seriously  and  sadly.  Her  hands 
were  still  upon  the  young  girl's  shoulders,  and,  as  she  spoke,  she 
turned  her  round,  and  brought  her  face  to  face  with  herself. 

Gertrude,  dc  you  wish  to  leave  your  blind  friend  ?  Do  you  nol 
Ic  ve  me  ?  ' 

So  touching^  /  grieved  wis  the  expression  of  the  countenance 


128 


IHE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


that  met  her  gaze,  that  Gertrude's  proud,  hasty  f^pirit  was  sub 
dued.    She  thr^^w  her  arms  round  Emily's  neck,  and  exclaimed, 
*  No  !  dear  Miss  Emily,  I  would  not  leave  you  for  all  the  world 
I  will  do  just  as  you  wish.    I  will  never  be  angry  witli  Mrs 
Ellis  again,  for  your  sake." 

"Not  for  mij  sake,  Gertrude,"  replied  Emily,  —  "for  vour  own 
Bake;  for  the  sake  of  duty  and  of  God.  A  few  years  ago  1 
should  not  have  expected  you  to  be  pleasant  and  amiable  tow.Mds 
any  one  whom  you  felt  ill-treated  you ;  but,  now  that  you  know 
so  well  what  is  right ;  now  that  you  are  familiar  with  the  life  of 
that  blessed  Master,  who,  when  he  was  reviled,  reviled  not  ao-ain: 
now  that  you  have  learned  faithfully  to  fulfil  so  many  im.portant 
duties ;  I  had  hoped  that  you  had  learned,  also,  to  be  forbearing, 
under  the  most  trying  circumstances.  But  do  not  think,  Gei- 
trude,  because  I  remind  you  when  you  have  done  wrong,  I  despaii 
of  your  becoming  one  day  all  I  wish  to  see  you.  What  you  are 
experiencing  now' being  a  new  trial,  you  must  bring  new  strength 
to  bear  upon  it;  and  I  have  such  confidence  in  you  as  to  believe 
that,  knowing  my  wishes,  you  will  try  to  behave  properly  to  Mrs. 
Ellis  on  all  occasions." 

"  I  will,  Miss  Emily,  I  will.  I  '11  not  answer  her  back  when 
she 's  ugly  to  me,  if  I  have  to  bite  my  lips  to  keep  them  together." 

"  O,  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Emily,  smil- 
ing.  Mrs.  Ellis'  manner  is  rather  rough,  but  you  will  get  used 
to  her." 

Just  then  a  voice  was  heard  in  the  entry, —  "To  see  Miss 
Flint!  Really!  Well,  Ifc  Fliiit  is  in  Miss  Emily's  room. 
8he  -s  going  to  entertain  company,  is  she  ?  " 

Gertrude  colored  to  her  temples,  for  it  was  Mrs.  Ellis'  voice, 
and  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke  was  very  derisive. 

Emily  stepped  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  —  "  Mrs.  Ellis  !  " 

"What  say,  Emily?  " 

"  Is  there  any  one  below  V  " 

"Yes;  a  young  man  wants  to  see  Gertrude;  it's  that  young 
Sullivan,  I  believe." 

"Willie!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  startincy  forward. 

"  You  can  go  down  and  see  him,  Gertrude,"  said  Emily    "  Come 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEA. 


Daek  here  when  he gone,  -  -  and,  Mrs.  Ellis  I  wish  you  would 
step  in  and  put  my  room  a  littL^  in  order.  I  think  you  will 
find  plenty  of  pieces  for  your  rag-bag  about  the  carpet, —  Miss 
Randolph  always  scatters  so  many  when  she  is  engaged  with  her 
dress-mak  ng." 

Mrs.  ELis  made  her  collection,  and  then,  seating  herself  on  a 
oouch  at  the  side  of  the  areplace,  w^ith  her  colored  rags  in  one 
hand  and  the  white  in  the  other,  commenced  speaking  of  Ger- 
trude. 

What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her,  Emily?"  said  she; 
*  send  ^er  to  school  ?  " 

Yes.    She  will  go  to  Mr.  W,%  this  winter." 
"  Why  !    Is  n't  that  a  very  expensive  school  for  a  chUd  like 
fier  ?  " 

"  It  is  expensive,  certainly  ;  but  I  wish  her  to  be  with  the  best 
teacher  I  kEOW  of,  and  father  makes  no  objection  to  the  terms. 
He  thinks,  as  I  do,  that  if  we  undertake  to  fit  her  to  instruct 
others,  she  must  be  thoroughly  taught  herself.  I  talked  with  him 
abont  it  the  first  night  after  we  came  into  town  for  the  season,  and 
he  agreed  with  me  that  we  had  better  put  her  out  to  learn  a  trade 
it  once,  than  half-educate,  make  a  fine  lady  of  her,  and  so  unfit 
her  for  anything.  He  was  willing  I  should  manage  the  matter  as 
I  pleased,  and  I  resolved  to  send  her  to  Mr.  W.'s.  So  she  will 
remain  with  us  for  the  present.  I  wish  to  keep  her  with  me  as 
long  as  I  can,  not  only  because  I  am  fond  of  the  child,  but  she  is 
delicate  and  sensitive,  and  now  that  she  is  so  sad  about  old  Mr. 
Flint's  death,  I  think  we  ought  to  do  all  we  can  to  make  her 
happy ;  don't  you,  Mrs.  Ellis  ?  " 

*'  I  always  calculate  to  do  my  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  rather 
stiffly.       Where  is  she  going  to  sleep  when  we  get  settled  ?  '* 

"  In  the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage." 

"  Then  where  shall  I  keep  the  linen  press  ? " 

"  Can't  it  stand  in  the  back  entry  ?  I  should  think  the  space 
oetwoen  the  windows  would  accommodate  it." 

"  I  suppose  it 's  got  to,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  flouncing  out  of  the 
room,  and  muttering  to  herself,  —  "  everything  turned  topsj-turvj^ 
for  the  sake  of  that  little  upstart ! " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


Mrs  K\lh  was  vei  3d  on  more  accounts  than  one.  Sh?.  hao 
long  had  hor  own  way  in  the  management  of  all  household  mat,* 
ters  at  M;.  Graham's,  and  had  consequently  become  rather 
tyrannical.  Slic  w^as  capable,  methodical  and  neat ;  accustomed  10 
a  small  family,  and  now  for  many  years  quite  itnaccustomed  to 
children;  Gertrude  was  in  her  eyes  an  unwarrantable  intruder  — 
one  wi;o  must  of  necessity  be  continually  in  mischief,  continually 
deranging  her  most  cherished  plans.  Then,  too,  Gertrude  had 
been  reared,  as  Mrs.  Ellis  expressed  it,  among  the  lower  classes , 
and  the  housekeeper,  who  was  not  in  reality  very  hard-hearted 
and  quite  approved  of  all  public  and  private  charities,  had  a 
elight  prejudice  in  flivor  of  high  birth.  Indeed,  though  now  de- 
pressed in  her  circumstances,  she  prided  herself  on  being  of  a 
^ood  family,  and  considered  it  an  insult  to  her  dignity  to  expect 
^hui  she  should  feel  an  interest  in  providing  &r  the  wants  of  one 

inferior  to  her  in  point  of  station. 

iN'iore  than  all  this,  she  saw  in  the  new  inmate  a  formidable  rival 
to  herself  in  Miss  Graham's  affections  ;  and  Mrs.  Ellis  could  not 
brook  t;he  idea  of  being  second  in  the  regard  of  Emily,  who, 
owing  tO  r\er  peculiar  misfortune  and  10  her  delicate  health,  had 
long  been  her  especial  charge,  and  for  whom  she  felt  as  much 
tenderness  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  feel  for  any  one. 

Owing  to  all  these  circumstances,  Mrs.  Ellis  was  far  fron. 
being  favorably  disposed  towards  Gertrude;  and  Gertrude,  iji 
hei  tiu'xi,  J\"is  not  jet  prepared  to  love  Mrs.  Ellis  very  cordialiv* 


OHAPTES  XVII. 


And  thou  must  sail  upon  this  sea,  a  long, 
Eventful  voyage.    The  wise  may  suffer  wreck. 
The  foolish  musU    0,  then,  be  early  wise. 

Ware. 

Emely  sat  alone  in  her  room.  Mr.  Graham  had  gone  to  A 
menting  of  bank-directors.  Mrs.  Ellis  was  stoning  raisins  in  the 
diiiing-room.  Willie  still  detained  Gertrude  in  the  little  library 
beiow  stairs,  and  Emily,  with  the  moonlight  now  streaming  across 
the  chamber,  which  was  none  the  less  dark  to  her  on  that  account, 
wa&  indulging  in  a  long  train  of  meditation.  Her  head  rested  on 
her  hand;  her  face,  usually  so  placid,  was  sad  and  melancholy  in 
its  expression  ;  and  her  whole  appearance  and  attitude  denoted  de- 
spondency and  grief.  As  thought  pressed  upon  thought,  and  past 
Borrows  arose  in  quick  succession,  her  head  gradually  sunk  upon 
the  cushions  of  the  couch  where  she  sat  and  tears  slowly  trickled 
through  her  fingers. 

Suddenly,  a  hand  was  laid  softly  upon  hers.  She  gave  a  quick 
start,  as  she  always  did  when  surprised,  for  her  unusual  preoccu- 
pation of  mind  had  made  Gertrude's  approaching  step  unheard. 

Is  anything  the  matter,  Miss  Emily  ? said  Gertrude  Bu 
you  like  best  to  be  alone,  or  may  I  stay  ?  " 

The  sympathetic  tone,  the  delicacy  of  the  child's  question, 
touched  Emily.  She  drew  her  towards  her,  saying,  as  she  did  so, 
"  0  yes,  stay  with  me ;"  then  observing,  as  she  passed  an  arm 
round  the  little  girl,  that  she  trembled,  and  seemed  violently  agi- 
tated, she  added,  "  but  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Gerty  ? 
What  makes  you  tremble  and  sob  so  ?  " 

At  this,  Gertrude  broke  forth  with,  "0,  Miss  Emily!  1 
thought  you  were  crying  when  I  came  in,  and  I  hoped  you  would 


i32 


TU±:  LAMPLlGIlTKll. 


let  mo  come  and  cry  wiih  you  ;  for  I  am  so  miserable  1  ian't  dt 
anything  else." 

(]iilnied  herself  by  the  more  vehement  agitation  of  the  chila 
Emily  endeavored  to  discover  the  cause  of  this  evidently  new  and 
severe  aiiliction.  It  proved  to  be  this  :  Willie  had  been  to  tell 
her  that  he  was  going  away,  going  out  of  the  country;  as  Ger. 
trude  expressed  it,  to  the  very  other  end  of  the  world  — to  Indiu 
Mr.  Clinton  was  interested  in  a  mercantile  house  at  Calcutta,  and 
bad  otfered  William  the  most  favorable  terms  to  go  abroad  ajj 
clerk  to  the  establishment.  The  prospect  thus  afforded  was  far 
better  than  he  could  hope  for  by  remaining  at  home;  the  salary 
was,  at  the  very  first,  sufficient  to  defray  all  his  own  expenses 
and  provide  for  the  wants  of  those  who  were  now  becoming  every 
yeav  more  and  more  dependent  upon  him.  The  chance,loo,  of 
future  advancement  was  great;  and,  though  the  young  man'3 
aflectionate  heart  clung  fondly  to  home  and  friends,  there  was  no 
hesitation  in  his  mind  as  to  the  course  which  both  duty  and  inter- 
est prompted.  He  agreed  to  the  proposal,  and,  whatever  his  own 
struggles  were  at  the  thought  of  five,  or  perhaps  ten  years'  banish- 
ment,  he  kept  them  manfully  to  himself,  and  talked  cheerfully 
about  it  to  his  mother  and  grandflither. 

"  Miss  Emily,"  said  Gertrude,  when  she  had  acquainted  her 
with  the  news,  and  become  again  somewhat  calm,  "  how  can  I 
bear  to  have  AVillie  go  away?  How  can  I  live  without  Willie  ? 
He  is  so  kind,  and  loves  me  so  much !  He  was  always  better  than 
any  brother,  and,  since  Uncle  True  died,  he  has  done  everything 
in  the  world  for  me.  I  believe  I  could  not  have  borne  Uncle 
True's  death  if  it  had  not  been  for  Willie ;  and  now  how  can  I 
let  him  go  away  ? " 

"  It  is  hard,  Gertrude,"  said  Emily,  kindly,  "  but  it  is  no 
doubt  for  his  advantage ;  you  must  try  and  think  of  that." 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Gertrude,  —  ''  I  suppose  it  is ;  but.  Miss 
Emily,  you  do  not  know  how  I  love  Willie.  We  were  so  much 
together  ;  and  there  were  only  us  two,  and  we  thought  everything 
Df  each  other ;  he  was  so  much  older  than  I,  and  always  took 
§uch  good  care  of  me  !  0, 1  doa't  think  you  have  an^  idea  whai 
kViends  we  are  !  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


183 


txertrude  bad  unconsciously  touched  a  ^hcrd  that  vibis^ced 
thi'ough  Plmily's  whole  frame.  Her  voice  trembled  as  she  an- 
swered, "  i,  Gertrude  !  not  know^  my  child  i    I  know  better  than 

you  imagine  how  dear  he  must  be  to  you.  7,  too,  had   then 

checking  herself,  she  paused  abruptly,  and  there  was  a  few  mo- 
menta silence,  during  which  Emily  got  up,  walked  hastily  to  the 
window,  pressed  her  aching  head  against  the  frosty  glass,  and 
then,  returning  to  Gertrude,  said,  in  a  voice  which  had  recovered 
its  usual  calmness,  "  0,  Gertrude  !  in  the  grief  that  oppresse?^ 
you  now,  you  little  realize  how  much  you  have  to  be  thankful  for. 
Think,  my  dear,  what  a  blessing  it  is  that  Willie  will  be  where 
you  can  often  hear  from  him,  and  where  he  can  have  constant 
news  of  his  friends." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gerty ;  he  says  he  shall  write  to  his  mother 
and  me  very  often." 

"  Then,  too,"  said  Emily,  "  you  ought  to  rejoice  at  the  good 
opinion  Mr.  Clinton  must  have  of  Willie  ;  the  perfect  confidence 
he  must  feel  in  his  uprightness,  to  place  in  him  so  much  trust.  1 
think  that  is  very  flattering." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Gertrude  ;     I  did  not  think  of  that." 

'*  And  you  have  lived  so  happily  together,"  continued  Emily, 
"  and  will  part  in  such  perfect  peace.  0,  Gertrude  !  Gertrude  ! 
Buch  a  parting  as  that  should  not  make  you  sad  ;  there  are  so 
much  worse  things  in  the  world.  Be  patient,  my  dear  child,  do 
your  duty,  and  perhaps  there  will  some  day  be  a  happy  meeting, 
that  will  quite  repay  you  for  all  you  suffer  in  the  separation." 

Emily's  voice  trembled  as  she  uttered  the  last  few  words. 
Gertrude's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  friend  with  a  very  puzzled 
expression.'  Miss  Emily,"  said  she,  "  I  begin  to  think  every- 
body has  trouble." 

"  Certainly,  Gertrude  ;  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  use  to  think  so.  I  knew  I  had,  but  I  thought 
other  folks  were  more  fortunate.  I  fmcied  that  rich  people 
were  all  happy ;  and,  though  you  are  blind,  and  that  is  a  dreadful 
thing,  I  supposed  you  were  used  to  it ;  and  you  always  .looked  so 
pleasant  and  quiet,  I  took  it  for  granted  nothing  ever  vexed  you 
DOW.  And  then,  Willie! —Ibelieved  : nee  that  nothing  oou' dm -ik a 
12 


134 


THE  LASIPLIGHTEK 


him  look  sad,  he  was  always  so  gay;  but  when  he  ii^^.dnt  an)( 
place,  1  saw  him  really  cry ;  and  then,  when  Unck  True  died,  and 
now  again  to-night,  when  he  was  telling  me  about  going  away,  ho 
could  hardly  speak,  he  felt  so  badly.  AAd  so,  Miss  Emily,  since 
I  sc(}  that  you  and  Willie  have  troubles,  and  that  tears  will  come 
though  you  try  to  keep  them  back,  I  think  the  wor^i  is  full  of 
tiials,  and  that  everybody  gets  a  share." 

"  It  is  the  lot  of  humanity,  Gertrude,  and  we  must  not  expect  it 
to  be  otherwise." 

**  Then  who  can  be  happy,  Miss  Emily  ?  " 
Those  only,  my  child,  who  have  learned  submission;  those 
who,  in  the  severest  afflictions,  see  the  hand  of  a  lovhig  Father, 
and,  obedient  to  his  will,  kiss  the  chastening  rod." 

"  It  is  very  hard.  Miss  Emily." 

"  It  is  hard,  my  child,  and  therefore  few  in  this  world  can 
rightly  be  called  happy ;  but,  if,  even  in  the  midst  of  our  distress, 
we  can  look  to  God  in  faith  and  love,  we  may,  when  the  world  is 
dark  around,  experience  a  peace  that  is  a  foretaste  of  heaven." 

And  Emily  was  right.  Who  that  is  striving  after  the  Christian 
life  has  not  experienced  moments  when,  amid  unusual  discourage- 
ments  and  disappointments,  the  heart,  turning  in  love  and  trust  to 
its  great  Source,  experiences  emotions  of  ecstatic  joy  and  hope, 
that  nev3r  come  to  the  prosperous  and  the  world-called  happy 
He  who  has  had  such  dreams  of  eternal  peace  can  form  some  con- 
ception of  the  rest  which  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God,  when, 
with  an  undivided  affection,  and  a  faith  undimmed  by  a  single 
doubt,  the  soul  reposes  in  the  bosom  of  its  Creator. 

Gertrude  had  often  found  in  time  and  the  soothing  influences 
cf  religious  fliith  some  alleviation  to  her  trials ;  but  never  until 
this  night,  did  she  feel  a  spirit  not  of  earth,  coming  forth  from  the 
very  chaos  of  sorrow  into  which  she  was  plunged,  and  enkindling 
within  her  the  flame  of  a  higher  and  nobler  sensation  than  sliQ 
ever  yet  had  cherished. 

When  she  left  Emily  that  night,  it  was  with  a  ser-nity  which  is 
strength  ;  and,  if  the  spirit  of  Uncle  True,  booking  down  upon 
her  through  the  bright  star  which  she  so  loved,  sighed  to  see  the 
tears  which  flittered  in  her  eyes,  it  was  reiissui^ed  by  the  smile 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


of  a  heavcL  .it  light  that  played  over  her  fet^tures,  and  when  shu 
sunk  to  shimber  stamped  them  with  the  seal  of  peace.  . 

Willie's  departure  was  sudden,  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  only  a 
week  in  which  to  make  those  arrangements  which  a  mother's 
tb.ouijhtfiilness  deems  necessarv  Her  hands  were  therefore  full 
of  work,  and  Gerty,  whom  Emily  at  once  relinquished  for  the 
fehort  time  pre-vious  to  the  vessel's  sailing,  was  of  great  assist- 
ance to  her.  Willie  was  very  busy  daytimes,  but  was  always 
with  them  in  the  evening. 

On  one  occasion,  he  returned  home  about  dusk,  and,  his  mother 
and  grandfather  both  being  out,  and  Gertrude  having  just  put 
aside  her  sewing,  he  said  to  her,  "  Come,  Gerty,  if  you  are  not 
afraid  of  taking  cold,  come  and  sit  on  the  door-step  with  me,  as 
we  used  to  in  old  times ;  there  vrill  be  no  more  such  warm  days 
as  this,  and  we  may  never  have  another  chance  to  sit  there,  and 
watch  the  moon  rise  above  the  old  house  at  the  corner." 

"  0,  Willie,"  said  Gertrude,  "  do  not  speak  of  our  never  being 
together  in  this  old  place  again  !  I  cannot  bear  the  thought ; 
there  is  not  a  house  in  Boston  I  could  ever  love  as  I  do  this." 

u  jN^rjr  I,"  replied  Willie ;  *'  but  there  is  not  one  chance  in  a 
hundred,  if  I  should  be  gone  five  years,  that  there  would  not  be  a 
block  of  brick  stores  in  this  spot,  when  I  come  to  look  for  it.  I 
wish  I  did  not  think  so,  for  I  shall  have  many  a  longing  after  tho 
old  home." 

"  Bat  what  will  become  of  your  mother  and  grandfather^  if 
this  house  is  torn  down  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  tell,  Gerty,  what  will  become  of  any  of  usi 
by  that  time ;  but,  if  there  is  any  necessity  for  their  moving,  1 
hope  T  shall  be  able  to  provide  a  better  house  than  this  for  them." 

"  Yon  won't  be  here,  Willie." 
I  know  it,  but  I  shall  be  always  hearing  from  you,  and  we 
can  talk  about  it  by  letters,  and  arrange  everything.  The  idea 
of  any  such  changes,  after  all."  added  he,  "  is  what  troubles  me 
most  in  going  away ;  I  think  tht>y  would  miss  me  and  need  niG 
so  much.    Gertrude,  you  will  take  care  of  them,  won't  you  ? 

I !  said  Gertrude^  in  amazement ,  "  such  a  child  aF  I !  — what 
caDldo?" 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEIU 


If  T  am  gone  fi  or  ten  years,  Gerty,  you  wiil  not  be  a  child 
all  that  tini3,  and  a  woman  is  often  a  better  dependence  than  a 
man ;  especially  such  a  good,  brave  woman  as  you  will  be.  I 
have  not  forgotten  the  beautiful  care  you  took  of  Uncle  I  rue  ;  and 
jrt^henever  I  imagine  grandfather  or  mother  old  and  helpless,  1 
always  think  of  you,  and  hope  you  will  be  near  them;  for  1  know, 
if  you  arCj  you  will  be  a  greater  help  than  I  could  be.  So  I  leava 
them  in  your  care,  Gerty,  though  you  are  only  a  child  yet." 

"  Thank  you,  Willie,"  said  Gertrude,  for  believing  I  shall  do 
everything  I  can  for  them.  I  certainly  will,  as  long  as  I  live. 
But,  Willie,  they  may  be  strong  and  well  all  the  time  you  are  gone ; 
and  /,  although  I  am  so  young,  may  be  sick  and  die,  —  nobodj 
knows." 

"  That  is  true  enough,"  said  W^illie,  sadly ;  "  and  I  may  die 
myself ;  but  it  will  not  do  to  think  of  that.  It  seems  to  me  I 
never  should  have  courage  to  go,  if  I  did  n't  hope  to  find  you  all 
well  and  happy  when  I  come  home.  You  must  write  to  me  every 
month,  for  it  will  be  a  much  greater  task  to  mother,  and  I  am  sure 
Bhe  will  want  you  to  do  nearly  all  the  writing ;  and,  whether  mj 
letters  come  directed  to  her  or  you,  it  will  be  all  the  same,  you 
know.  And,  Gerty,  you  must  not  forget  me,  darling  ;  you  must 
love  me  just  as  much  when  I  am  gone,  —  won't  you  ?  " 

Forget  you,  Willie  I  I  shall  be  always  thinking  of  you,  and 
loving  you  the  sam.e  as  ever.  What  else  shall  I  have  to  do  ?  But 
you  will  be  off  in  a  strange  country,  where  everything  will  be  dif- 
ferent, and  you  will  not  think  half  as  much  of  me,  I  know." 

"  If  you  believe  that,  Gertrude,  it  is  because  you  do  not  know. 
You  will  have  friends  all  around  you,  and  I  shall  be  alone  in  a 
foreign  land  ;  but  every  day  of  my  life  my  heart  will  be  with  you 
und  my  mother,  and  I  shall  live  here  a  great  deal  more  than  there." 

They  were  now  interrupted  by  ?Ir.  Cooper's  return,  nor  did  they 
afterwards  renew  the  conversation  on  the  above  topics;  but  the 
morning  ^Villic  left  them,  when  IMrs.  Sullivan  w^as  leaning  over  a 
neatly-packed  trunk  in  the  next  room,  trying  to  hide  her  tears,  and 
l^Ir.  Cooper's  head  was  bowed  lower  than  usual,  while  the  light 
had  gone  out  in  the  neglected  pipe,  which  he  still  neld  in  his  baud, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


137 


iVi\l)6  whispered  1  j  vrerty,  who  was  standing  on  a  small  chest  of 
books,  in  order  to  foroe  down  the  lid  for  him  to  l(.*ck  it,  "  Gertj, 
dear,  for  my  sake  take  good  care  of  our  mother  and  grandfather 
—  mev  are  yaiiVS  alm.ost  as  much  as  mine." 

On  Willie's  thus  leaving  home,  for  the  first  time,  to  strnggk 
dnd  strive  among  men,  Mr.  Cooper,  who  could  not  vet  believe  that 
the  bo  J  would  be  successful  in  the  war  with  foi'tune,  gave  him 
luany  a  caution  against  indulging  hopes  which  never  would  be 
realized,  and  reminded  him  again  and  again  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  world. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  bestowed  on  her  son  but  little  parting  counsel. 
Trusting  to  the  lessons  he  had  been  learning  from  his  childhood 
she  compressed  her  parental  advice  into  few  words,  saying 
"Love  and  fear  God,  Willie,  and  do  not  disappoint  your  mother.' 

We  pause  not  to  dwell  upon  the  last  night  the  youth  speat  at 
home,  his  mother's  last  evening  prayer,  her  last  morning  benedic- 
tion, the  last  breakfast  they  all  took  together  (Gertrude  among 
the  rest),  or  the  final  farewell  embrace. 

And  W^illie  went  to  sea.  And  the  pious,  loving,  hopeful 
woman,  who  for  eighteen  years  had  cherished  her  boy  with  tender- 
ness and  pride,  maintained  now  her  wonted  spirit  of  self-sacrifice, 
and  gave  him  up  without  a  murmur.  None  knew  how  she  strug- 
gled with  her  aching  heart,  or  whence  came  the  power  that  sus* 
tained  her.  No  one  had  given  the  little  widow  credit  for  such 
strensth  of  mind,  and  the  neio;hbors  wondered  much  to  see  how 
quietly  she  went  about  her  duties  the  day  before  her  son  sailed  ; 
and  how,  when  he  had  gone,  she  still  kept  on  with  her  work,  and 
wore  the  same  look  of  patient  humility  that  ever  characterized  her 

At  the  present  moment,  when  emigration  oifers  rare  hopes  and 
inducements,  there  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  New  England  a  vil- 
lage so  insignificant,  or  so  secluded,  that  there  is  not  there  sonio 
mother's  heart  bleeding  at  the  perhaps  life-long  separation  from  a 
darling  son.  Among  the  wanderers,  w  3  hope,  —  ay,  we  heliem 
lhat  there  is  many  a  one  who  is  actuated,  not  by  the  love  of  gold, 
the  love  of  change,  the  love  of  adventure,  but  by  the  lovr,  he 
bears  his  mother^  —  the  earnest  longin.'-  f^f  his  heart  to  save  hei 
from  a  liie  of  toil  and  poverty.  Blessio^s  and  prosperity  to  him 
12^ 


THE  I-A3IPLIGHTER 


vrlio  goes  forth  with  such  a  motive  !  And,  if  he  fliil,  he  has  i.ot 
lived  in  vain ;  for,  though  stricken  by  disease  or  violence  at  the 
very  threshold  of  his  labors,  he  dies  in  attestation  of  the  truth 
that  ther)  are  sons  worthy  of  a  mother's  love,  a  love  which  is  tho 
4iighest,  the  holiest,  the  jDurest  type  of  God  on  earth. 

And  now,  in  truth,  commenced  Gertrude's  residence  at  Mr.  Gra- 
ham's, hitherto  in  various  ways  interrupted.  She  at  once  com- 
menced attending  school,  and  until  the  spring  labored  diligently  at 
her  studies.  Her  life  was  varied  by  few  incidents,  for  Emily  never 
entertained  much  company,  and  in  the  winter  scarcely  any 
at  all,  and  Gertrude  formed  no  intimate  acquaintances  among 
her  companions.  With  Emily  she  passed  many  happy  hours  ; 
they  took  walks,  read  books  and  talked  much  with  each  other,  and 
Miss  Graham  found  that  in  Gertrude's  observing  eyes,  and  her 
feeling  and  glowing  descriptions  of  everji:hing  that  came  within 
their  gaze,  she  was  herself  renewing  her  acquaintance  with  the  out- 
Bide  world.  In  errands  of  charity  and  mercy  Gertrude  was  either 
her  attendant  or  her  messenger  ;  and  all  the  dependants  of  the 
family,  from  the  cook  to  the  little  boy  who  called  at  the  door  for 
the  fragm^ents  of  broken  bread,  agreed  in  loving  and  praising  the 
child,  who,  though  neither  beautiful  nor  elegantly  dressed,  had  a 
fairy  lightness  of  step,  a  grace  of  movement  and  a  dignity  of  bear- 
ing, which  impressed  them  all  with  the  conviction  that  she  was  no 
beggar  in  spirit,  whatever  might  be  her  birth  or  fortune,  —  and  all 
were  in  the  invariable  habit  of  addressing  her  as  Aliss  Gertrude. 

Mrs.  Ellis'  prejudices  against  her  were  still  strong ;  but,  as  Ger- 
trude was  always  civil,  and  Emily  prudently  kept  them  much 
apart,  no  unhappy  result  had  ^^et  ensued. 

Mr.  Graham,  seeing  her  sad  and  pensive,  did  not  at  first  take 
much  notice  of  her ;  but,  having  on  several  occasions  found  his 
newspaper  carefully  dried,  and  his  spectacles  miraculously  restored, 
after  a  vain  search  on  his  part,  he  began  to  think  her  a  smart  girl  ; 
and  when,  a  few  weeks  after,  he  took  up  the  last  number  of  tlic 
Woj  Jmig  Farmery  and  saw,  to  his  surprise,  that  the  leaves  wore 
cut  and  carefully  stitched  together,  he,  supposing  she  had  done  it 
^or  her  own  benefi  ,  pronounced  her  decidedly  an  i'  telKgent  girl. 

She  went  often*.:)  see  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and,  as  the  spring  advanced 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


139 


ehej  began  to  .ook  for  news  of  Willie.  No  tidings  had  come, 
bowevei,  when  the  season  arrived  for  the  Grahams  to  removG 
into  the  country  for  the  summer.  A  letter,  written  by  Gertrude 
to  Willie,  soon  after  they  were  established  there,  will  give  some 
idea  of  her  situation  and  mode  of  life.  « 

After  dwelling  at  some  length  upon  the  disappointment  of  not 
having  yet  heard  from  him,  and  giving  an  account  of  the  last 
visit  she  had  made  his  mother  before  leaving  the  city,  she  went 
on  to  say:  But  you  made  mo  promise,  Willie,  to  write  about 
myself,  and  said  you  should  wish  to  hear  everything  that  occurred 
at  Mr.  Graham's  which  concerned  me  in  anyway;  so,  if  my  letter 
is  more  tedious  than  usual,  it  is  your  own  fault,  for  I  have  much 

vO  tell  of  our  removal  to  J)  ,  and  of  the  way  in  which  we  live 

here,  so  different  from  our  life  in  Boston.  I  think  I  hear  you 
say,  when  you  have  read  so  far,  '  0  dear !  now  Gerty  is  going  to 
give  me  a  description  of  Mr.  Graham's  country-house  ! '  —  but 
you  need  not  bo  afraid ;  I  have  not  forgotten  how,  the  last  time  I 
unJjrtook  to  do  so,  you  placed  your  hand  over  my  mouth  to  stop 
me,  and  assured  me  you  knew  the  place  as  well  as  if  you  had 
lived  there  all  your  life,  for  I  had  described  it  to  you  as  often  as 
once  a  week  ever  since  I  was  eight  years  old.  I  made  you  beg  , 
my  pardon  for  being  so  uncivil ;  but  I  believe  I  talked  enough 
about  my  first  visit  here  to  excuse  you  for  being  quite  tired  of 
the  subject.  Now,  however,  quite  to  my  disappointment,  every- 
ihing  looks  smaller  and  less  beautiful  than  it  seemed  to  me  then ; 
Hud,  though  I  do  not  mean  to  describe  it  to  you  again,  I  must 
just  tell  3^ou  that  the  entry  and  piazzas  are  much  narrower  than 
I  expected,  the  rooms  lower,  and  the  garden  and  summer-houses 
not  nearly  so  large.  Miss  Emily  asked  me,  a  day  or  two  ago, 
how  I  liked  the  place,  and  if  it  looked  as  it  used  to.  1  told  hei 
the  truth;  and  she  was  not  at  all  displeas(?d,  but  laughed  at 
my  old  recollections  of  the  house  and  grounds,  and  said  it  was 
always:  so  with  things  we  had  seen  when  we  were  little  children. 

I  need  not  tcli  you  that  Miss  Emily  is  kind  and  good  to  mo  as 
ever  ;  for  nobody  who  knows  her  as  you  do  would  suppose  she  could 
e^er  be  anything  but  the  best  and  loveliest  person  in  the  world. 
I  can  never  do  half  enough,  Willie,  to  repay  her  for  all  her  good* 


14C 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ness  to  mo;  and  yet,  she  is  so  pleased  with  litt\3  gifts,  ana  so 
ffrateful  for  trifling  attentions,  that  it  seems  as  if  everybody  m'nAxt 
do  something  to  make  her  happy.  I  found  a  few  violets  in  the 
grass  yesterday,  and  when  I  brought  them  to  her  she  kispxd  and 
^^thanked  me  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  diamonds;  and  little 
Ben  Gatcly,  who  picked  a  hatful  of  dandelion-blossoms,  without  a 
single  stem,  and  then  rang  at  the  front-door  bell  and  asked  for  Misa 
Ga'am,  so  as  to  give  them  to  her  himself,  got  a  sweet  smile  for 
his  trouble,  and  a  *  thank  you,  Bennie,'  that  he  will  not  soon 
forget.    Was  n't  it  pleasant  in  Miss  Emily,  Willie  ? 

"Mr.  Graham  has  given  me  a  garden,  and  T  mean  to  have 
plenty  of  flowers  for  her,  by  and  by,  —  that  is,  if  Mrs.  Ellis  does  n't 
interfere;  but  I  expect  she  will,  for  she  does  in  almost  every- 
thing. Willie,  Mrs.  Ellis  is  my  trial,  my  great  trial.  She  is 
just  the  kind  of  person  I  cannot  end. ire.  I  believe  there  are 
Bome  people  that  other  people  ca7i't  like,  —  and  she  is  just  the  sort 
I  can't.  I  would  not  tell  anybody  else  so,  because  it  would  not 
be  right,  and  I  do  not  know  as  it  is  right  to  mention  it  at  all ;  but 
I  always  tell  you  everything.  Miss  Emily  talks  to  me  about  her, 
and  says  I  must  learn  to  love  her ;  and  when  I  do  I  shall  bo  an 
angel. 

"  There,  I  know  you  will  think  that  is  some  of  Gerty's  old 
temper ;  and  perhaps  it  is,  but  you  don't  know  how  she  tries  me : 
it  is  in  little  things  that  I  cannot  tell  very  easily,  and  I  would 
not  plague  you  with  them  if  I  could,  so  I  won't  write  about  her 
any  more,  • —  I  will  try  to  be  perfect,  and  love  her  dearly. 

"  You  will  think  that  now,  while  I  am  not  going  to  school,  I 
ehall  hardly  what  to  do  with  my  time;  but  I  have  plenty  to 

do.  The  week  after  we  came  here,  however,  I  found  the 
mornings  very  dull.  You  know  I  am  always  an  early  riser;  but, 
as  it  does  not  agree  with  Miss  Emily  to  keep  early  hours,  I  never 
Bee  her  until  eight  o'clock,  full  two  hours  after  I  am  up  and  dressed 
When  we  were  in  Boston,  I  always  spent  that  time  studying 
but  this  spring.  Miss  Emily,  who  noticed  that  I  was  growing  fast, 
and  heard  Mr.  Arnold  observe  how  pale  I  looked,  flmcied  it  would 
not  do  for  me  to  spend  so  much  time  at  my  books ;  and  so,  when 
we  came  to  D  ,  she  planned  my  study-hours,  wkich  are  verj 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


141 


few,  an  J  arranged  th  at  they  should  take  place  after  breakfast  and  in 
her  own  room.  She  also  advised  me,  if  I  could,  to  sleep  later  in 
the  morning;  but  I  could  not,  and  was  up  at  my  usual  time,  wan- 
dermg  around  the  garden.  One  day  I  was  quite  surprised  to  find 
Mr.  Graham  at  work,  for  it  was  not  like  his  winter  habits ;  but  he 
is  a  queer  man.  He  asked  me  to  come  and  help  liim  plant  onion- 
seeds,  and  I  rather  think  I  did  it  pretty  well ;  for  after  that  he 
let  me  help  him  plant  a  number  of  things,  and  label  little  sticks 
to  put  down  by  the  side  of  them.  At  last,  to  my  joy,  he  offered 
to  give  me  a  piece  of  ground  for  a  garden,  where  I  might  raise 
flowers.  He  does  not  care  for  flowers,  which  seems  so  strange; 
he  only  raises  vegetables  and  trees. 

"  And  so  I  am  to  have  a  garden.  But  I  am  making  a  very 
long  story,  Willie,  and  have  not  time  to  say  a  thousand  other 
things  that  I  want  to.  0 !  if  I  could  see  you,  I  could  tell  you 
in  an  hoar  more  than  I  can  write  in  a  week.  In  five  minutes  I 
expect  to  near  Miss  Emily's  bell,  and  then  she  will  send  for  mc 
io  come  anci  read  to  her. 

I  long  10  hear  from  you,  dear  Willie,  and  pray  to  God,  morn- 
iiig^ana  evening,  to  keep  you  in  safety,  and  soon  send  tidings  zf 
you  w  youv  iuvo^g  Ge&tv  " 


CHAPTEK  XVIII. 


Il  t  not  lovely  1    Tell  me,  where  doth  dwell 
The  fay  that  wrought  so  beautiful  a  spell  1  — 
In  thine  own  bosom,  brother,  didst  thou  say  1 
Then  cherish  as  thine  own  so  good  a  fay. 
.  Dana. 

A  FEW  wioks  after  tho  date  of  this  letter,  Gerty  learned 
through  George,  who  went  daily  to  the  city  to  attend  to  the 
marketing,  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  left  word  at  the  shop  of  our 
old  acquaintance,  the  rosy-cheeked  butcher,  that  she  had  received 
a  letter  from  Willie,  and  wanted  Gerty  to  come  into  town  and 
see  it.  Emily  was  willing  to  let  her  go,  but  afraid  it  wou]d  be 
'impossible  to  arrange  it,  as  Charlie,  the  only  horse  Mr.  Graham 
kept,  was  in  use,  and  she  saw  no  way  of  sending  her. 

"Why  don't  you  let  her  go  in  the  omnibus?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ellis. 

Gerty  looked  gratefully  at  Mrs.  Ellis ;  it  was  the  first  timo 
that  lady  had  ever  seemed  anxious  to  promote  her  views. 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  safe  for  her  to  go  alone  in  the  coach,'*  sail 
Emily. 

"Safe!  —  What,  for  that  great  girl!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ellis, 
whose  position  in  the  family  was  such  that  there  viere  no  forms 
of  restraint  in  her  intercourse  with  Miss  Graham. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  ?  "  inquired  Emily.  "  She  seems  a  child 
to  me,  to  be  sure ;  but,  as  you  say,  she  is  almost  grown  up,  and 
I  daresay  is  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  Gertrude,  are 
you  sure  you  know  the  way  from  the  omnibus-office  in  Boston 
to  Mrs.  Sullivan's  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  well,  Miss  Emily." 

Without  further  hesitation,  two  tickets  for  the  coach  were  put 


THB  LAMPLIGHTER. 


mto  G-ertrude's  hand,  and  slie  set  forth  on  I  sr  expedition  with 
jieaming  eyes  and  a  full  heart.  She  found  Airs.  Sullivan  and 
Mr.  Cooper  well,  and  rejoicing  over  the  happiest  tidings  from 
Willie,  who,  alter  a  long  but  agreeable  voyage,  had  reached 
Calcutta  in  health  am^  safety.  A  description  of  his  new  home, 
his  new  duties  and  employers,  filled  all  the  rest  of  the  letter, 
excepting  what  was  devoted  to  affectionate  messages  and  inquiries, 
a  large  share  of  which  were  for  Gerty.  Gertrude  stayed  and 
dined  with  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  then  hastened  to  the  omnibus.  She 
took  her  seat,  and,  as  she  waited  for  the  coach  to  start,  amused 
herself  with  watching  the  passers-by.  It  was  nearly  three  o'clock, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  think  she  should  be  the  only  passenger 
when  she  heard  a  strange  voice  proceeding  from  a  person  whose 
approach  she  had  not  perceived.  She  moved  towards  the  door, 
and  saw,  standing  at  the  back  of  the  coach,  the  most  singular- 
looking  being  she  had  ever  beheld.  It  was  an  old  lady,  small, 
and  considerably  bent  with  years.  Gertrude  knew,  at  a  glance, 
that  the  same  original  mind  must  have  conceived  and  executed 
every  article  of  the  most  remarkable  toilet  she  had  ever  wit- 
nessed. But,  before  she  could  observe  the  details  of  that  which 
was  as  a  whole  so  wonderfully  grotesque,  her  whole  attention 
was  arrested  by  the  peculiar  behavior  of  the  old  lady. 

She  had  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  mount  the  inconvenient 
vehicle,  and  now,  with  one  foot  upon  the  lower  step,  was  calling 
to  the  driver  to  come  to  her  assistance. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  in  measured  tones,  "  is  this  travelling  equipage 
under  your  honorable  charge  ?  " 

"  What  say,  marm  ?  —  Yes,  I 'm  the  driver  saying  which,  he 
came  up  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and,  without  waiting  for  tho 
polite  request  which  was  on  the  old  lady's  lips,  placed  his  hand 
beneath  her  elbow,  and  before  she  was  aware  cf  his  intention 
lifted  her  into  the  coach  and  shut  the  door. 

"Bless  me!''  ejaculated  she,  as  she  seated  herself  opposite 
Gertrude,  and  began  to  arrange  her  veil  and  other  draperies. 
"  that  individual  is  not  versed  in  the  art  of  assisting  a  lady  with 
out  detriment  to  her  habiliments.  O  dear,  0  dear!  "  added  sb© 
Id  the  same  breath,  "  I 've  lost  my  parasol ,  " 


144 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Sue  rose  as  she  sroke ;  but  the  sudden  starting  of  the  coach 
threw  her  off  her  balance,  and  she  would  have  fallen,  had  it  not 
been  for  Gertrude,  who  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  reseated  her 
saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  Do  net  be  alarmed  madam;  here  is  the 
parasol." 

As  she  spoke  she  drew  into  view  the  missing  article,  which 
though  nearly  the  size  of  an  umbrella,  was  fastened  to  the  old 
i.ady's  waist  by  a  green  ribbon,  and,  having  slipped  out  of  place, 
was  supposed  lost.  And  not  a  parasol  only  did  she  thus  bring 
to  light;  numerous  other  articles,  arranged  in  the  same  manner, 
«ind  connected  with  the  same  green  string,  now  met  Gertrude's 
istonished  eyes ;  —  a  reticule  of  unusual  dimensions  and  a  great 
rariety  of  colors,  a  black  lace  cap,  a  large  feather  fan,  a  roll  of 
(ancy  paper,  and  several  other  articles.  They  were  partly  hidden 
under  a  thin  black  silk  shawl,  and  Gertrude  began  to  think  her 
companion  had  been  on  a  pilfering  expedition.  If  so,  however, 
the  culprit  seemed  remarkably  at  her  ease,  for  before  the  coach 
had  gone  many  steps  she  deliberately  placed  her  feet  on  the 
opposite  seat,  and  proceeded  to  make  herself  comfortable.  In 
the  first  place,  much  to  Gertrude's  horror,  she  took  out  all  her 
teeth  and  put  them  in  her  work-bag ;  then  drew  off  a  pair  of 
blacky  silk  gloves,  and  replaced  them  by  cotton  ones ;  removed  her 
lace  veil,  folded  and  pinned  it  to  the  green  string.  She  next 
untied  her  bonnet,  threw  over  it,  as  a  protection  from  the  dust,  a 
large  cotton  handkerchief,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  unloosing 
her  fan,  applied  herself  diligently  to  the  use  of  it,  closing  her 
eyes  as  she  did  so,  and  evidently  intending  to  go  to  sleep.  She 
probably  did  fiiU  into  a  doze,  for  she  was  very  quiet,  and  Ger- 
trude, occupied  with  her  own  thoughts,  and  with  observing  some 
heavy  clouds  that  were  arising  from  the  west,  forgot  to  observe 
her  fellow-traveller,  until  she  was  startled  by  a  hand  suddenly 
laid  upon  her  own,  and  an  abrupt  exclamation  of  "  My  dear 
young  damsel,  do  not  those  dark  shadows  betoken  adverse 
weather  ? " 

"  I  think  it  will  rain  very  soon,"  replied  Gertrude. 
"  This  morn,  when  I  ventured  forth,"  soliloquized  the  old  lady 
'*  the  sun  was  bright,  the  sky  serene;  even  the  winged  sougster» 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


145 


as  they  piped  tlieir  hymns,  proclaimed  their  part  in  the  aniversal 
joy  ;  and  now,  before  I  can  regain  my  retirement,  my  deUcate  lace 
flounces  (and  she  glanced  at  the  skirt  of  her  dress)  wili  pruV3  a 
sacrifice  to  the  pitiless  storm.'' 

"  Does  n't  the  coach  pass  your  door  ?  "  inquired  Gertrude,  her 
nompassion  excited  by  the  old  lady's  evident  distress. 

"  No  !  0,  no  !  not  within  half  a  mile.  Does  it  better  accommo- 
date you,  my  young  miss  ?  " 

"  No.    I  have  a  mile  to  walk  beyond  the  omnibus-office." 
#        The  old  lady,  moved  by  a  deep  sympathy,  drew  nearer  to  Ger- 
trude,  saying,  in  the  most  doleful  accents,  "  Alas  for  the  delicate 
whiteness  of  your  bonnet-ribbon  !  " 

The  coach  had  by  this  time  reached  its  destination,  and  the 
two  passengers  alighted.  Gertrude  placed  her  ticket  in  the 
driver's  hand,  and  would  have  started  at  once  on  her  walk,  but 
was  prevented  by  the  old  lady,  who  grasped  her  dress,  and  begged 
her  to  wait  for  her,  as  she  was  going  the  same  way.  And  now 
great  difficulty  and  delay  ensued.  The  old  lady  refused  to  pay 
the  amount  of  fare  demanded  byl^he  driver;  declared  it  was  not 
the  regular  fare,  and  accused  the  man  of  an  intention  to  put  the 
surplus  of  two  cents  in  his  own  pocket.  Gertrude  was  impatient, 
for  she  was  every  moment  expecting  to  see  the  rain  pour  in  tor- 
rents; but  at  last,  the  matter  being  compromised  between  the 
iriver  and  his  closely-calculating  passenger,  she  was  permitted  to 
pi'oceed.  They  had  walked  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  that 
at  a  very  slow  rate,  when  the  rain  commenced  falling ;  and  now 
Gertrude  was  called  upon  to  unloose  the  huge  parasol,  and  carry 
it  over  her  companion  and  herself.  In  this  way  they  had  accom- 
plished nearly  as  much  more  of  the  distance,  when  the  water 
bco^an  to  descend  as  if  all  the  reservoirs  of  heaven  were  at  once 

o 

thrown  open.  At  this  moment  Gertrude  heard  a  step  behind 
them,  and,  turning,  she  saw  George,  Mr.  Graham's  man,  running 
in  the  direction  of  the  house.  He  recognized  her  at  once,  Jind 
exclaimed,  "  Miss  Gertrude,  you  '11  be  wet  through ;  and  Mis?' 
Pace  too,"  added  he,  seeing  Gerty's  companion.  Sure  and 
ye 'd  better  baith  hasten  to  her  house,  where  ye  '11  be  secure.*' 
So  saying,  he  caught  Miss  Pace  Li  his  arms,  and  eignin  to 
13 


146 


THE  LAMPLIQHTER. 


Q-ertrud^  to  follow,  r^ished  across  the  street,  and  harrying  on  tc 
a  cottage  near  by,  did  not  stop  until  he  had  placed  the  old  lady 
in  safety  beneath  her  own  porch ;  and  Gerty  at  the  same  instant 
gained  its  shelter.  Miss  Pace  —  for  such  was  the  old  lady^s  name 
—  was  so  bewildered  that  it  took  her  some  minutes  to  recover  her 
consciousness ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  it  was  arranged  that  Ger- 
trude should  stop  where  she  was  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  that 
George  should  call  for  her  when  he  passed  that  way  with  the  car- 
riagej  on  ^i:  return  from  the  depot,  where  he  went  regularly  on 
three  afternOx)ns  in  the  week  for  Mr.  Graham. 

Miss  Patty  Pace  was  not  generally  considered  a  person  of 
nuch  hospitality.  She  owned  the  cottage  which  she  occupied, 
md  lived  there  quite  alone,  keeping  no  servants  and  entertaining 
no  visitors.    She  was  herself  a  famous  visitor;  and,  as  but  a 

small  part  of  her  life  had  been  passed  in  D  ,  and  all  her 

friends  and  connections  lived  either  in  Boston  or  at  a  much 
greater  distance,  she  was  a  constant  frequenter  of  omnibuses  anc 
other  public  vehicles.  But  though,  through  her  travelling  pro- 
pensities and  her  regular  attendance  at  church,  she  was  well 
known,  Gertrude  was,  perhaps,  the  first  visitor  that  had  ever 
entered  her  house ;  and  she,  as  we  have  seen,  could  scarcely  be 
Baid  to  have  come  by  invitation. 

Even  when  she  was  at  the  very  door,  she  found  herself  obliged 
to  take  the  old  lady's  key,  unlock  and  open  it  herself,  and  finally 
lead  her  hostess  into  the  parlor,  and  help  her  ofi"  with  her  innu- 
merable capes,  shawls  and  veils.  Once  come  to  a  distinct  con- 
sciousness of  her  situation,  however,  and  Miss  Patty  Pace 
conducted  herself  with  all  the  elegant  politeness  for  which  she 
was  remarkable.  Suffering  though  she  evidently  was  with  a 
thousand  regrets  at  the  trying  experience  her  own  clothes  had 
sustained,  she  commanded  herself  sufficiently  to  express  nearly  as» 
many  fears  lest  Gertrude  had  ruined  every*  article  of  her  dress. 
It  was  only  after  many  assurances  from  the  latter  that  her  boots 
were  scarcely  wet  at  all,  her  gingham  dress  and  cape  not  likeiy 
to  be  hurt  by  rain,  and  her  nice  straw  bonnet  safe  under  the 
scarf  she  had  thrown  over  it,  that  Miss  Patty  could  be  prevailed 
upon  to  so  far  forget  the  duties  of  a  hostess  as  to  retire  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


147 


chango  n3r  laco  flounces  for  something  more  suitable  f}^  homo- 
wear. 

As  soon  as  she  left  the  room,  Gertrude,  whose  curiosity  waa 
wonderfully  excited,  hastened  to  take  a  nearer  view  of  numbers 
of  articles,  bDth  of  ornament  and  use,  which  had  already  attracted 
her  attention  from  their  odd  and  singular  appearance. 

Miss  Pace's  parlor  was  as  remarkable  as  its  owner.  Its  furni- 
ture, like  her  apparel,  was  made  up  of  the  gleanings  of  every 
age  and  fashion,  from  chairs  that  undoubtedly  came  over  in  the 
Mayflower,  to  feeble  attempts  at  modern  pincushions,  and  imita- 
tions  of  crystallized  grass,  that  were  a  complete  failure.  Ger- 
trude's quick  and  observing  eye  was  revelling  amid  the  few  relics 
of  ancient  elegance,  and  the  numerous  specimens  of  folly  and 
bad  taste,  with  which  the  room  was  filled,  when  the  old  lady 
returned. 

A  neat  though  quaint  black  dress  having  taken  the  place  of 
the  much-valued  flounces,  she  now  looked  far  more  ladylike. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  tumbler  of  pepper  and  water,  and  begged 
her  visitor  to  drink,  assuring  her  it  would  warm  her  stomach 
and  prevent  her  taking  cold ;  and  when  Gertrude,  who  could  only 
with  great  difficulty  keep  from  laughing  in  her  face,  declined  the 
beverage.  Miss  Patty  seated  herself,  and,  while  enjoying  the 
refreshment,  carried  on  a  conversation  which  at  one  moment 
satisfied  her  visitor  she  was  a  woman  of  sense,  and  the  next 
persuaded  her  that  she  was  either  foolish  or  insane. 

The  impression  which  Gertrude  made  upon  Miss  Patty,  how- 
ever, was  more  decided.  Miss  Patty  was  delighted  with  the 
young  miss,  who,  she  declared,  possessed  an  intellect  that  would 
do  honor  to  a  queen,  a  figure  that  was  airy  as  a  gazelle,  and 
motions  more  graceful  than  those  of  a  swan. 

When  George  came  for  Gertrude,  Miss  Pace,  who  seemed  eally 
sorry  to  pan  with  her,  cordially  invited  her  to  come  again,  and 
Gertrude  promised  to  do  so. 

The  satisfactory  news  from  Willie,  and  the  amusing  adventareii 
of  the  afternoon,  had  given  to  Gertrude  such  a  feeling  of  buoy- 
ancy and  hght-heartedness,  that  she  bounded  into  the  house,  and 
aj  the  stai's  m^h  (hat  fairy  quickness  Uncle  True  had  so  loved 


148 


THE  LAMPLTGHTESt. 


to  see  .1  her,  and  which,  since  his  death,  her  subdued  spirits  had 
rarely  )ei  mitted  her  to  exercise.  She  hastened  to  her  own  room 
to  rem  ve  her  bonnet  and  change  her  dress  before  seeking  Emily, 
to  whom  she  longed  to  conununicate  the  events  of  the  day. 

At  the  door  of  her  room  she  met  Bridget,  the  housemaid,  with 
a  dust-pan,  hand-broom,  etc.  On  inquiring  what  was  going  on 
there  at  this  unusual  hour,  she  Iciirned  that  during  her  absence 
her  room,  which  had  since  their  removal  been  in  some  confusion, 
owino-  to  ^trs.  Ellis'  not  havinf^  decided  what  furniture  should 
be  placed  there,  had  been  subjected  to  a  thorough  and  compre- 
hensive system  of  spring  cleaning.  Alarmed,  though  she  scarcely 
knew  why,  at  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Ellis  having  invaded  her  premises, 
she  surveyed  the  apartment  with  a  slight  feeling  of  agitation, 
which,  as  she  continued  her  observations,  swelled  into  a  storm  of 
tmgry  excitement. 

When  Gertrude  went  from  Mrs.  Sullivan's  to  Mr.  Graham's 
house  in  the  city,  she  carried  with  her,  beside  a  trunk  containing 
her  wardrobe,  an  eld  bandbox,  which  she  stored  away  on  the 
shelf  of  a  closet  in  her  chamber. 

There  it  remained,  during  the  winter,  unpacked  and  unobserved 
by  any  one.  When  the  family  went  into  the  country,  however, 
the  box  went  also,  carefully  watched  and  protected  by  its  owner. 
As  there  was  no  closet  or  other  hiding-place  in  Gertrude's  new 
room,  she  placed  it  in  a  corner  behind  the  bed,  and  the  evening 
before  her  expedition  to  the  city  had  been  engaged  in  removing 
and  inspecting  a  part  of  its  contents.  Each  article  was  endeared 
to  her  by  the  charm  of  old  association,  and  many  a  tear  had  the 
little  maiden  shed  ever  her  stock  of  valuables.  There  was  tho 
figure  of  the  Samuel,  Uncle  True's  first  gift,  now  defaced  by  time 
and  accident.  As  she  surveyed  a  severe  contusion  on  the  back 
of  the  head,  the  effect  of  an  inadvertent  knock  given  it  by 
True  himself,  and  remembered  how  patienUy  the  dear  old  man 
labored  to  repair  the  injury,  she  felt  that  she  would  not  part 
with  the  much-valued  memento  for  the  world.  There,  too,  were 
his  pipes,  of  common  clay,  and  dark  with  smoke  and  age;  but,  as 
she  thought  how  much  comfort  they  had  been  to  him,  she  felt 
that  the  posse£.^ion  of  them  was  a  consolation  to  her.    She  had 


THE  LAMPLIGIITER. 


MM 


'i^TCrs^hi  awaj-  too  his  lantern,  for  she  had  not  forgotten  its  pleas, 
ant  light,  the  first  that  ever  fell  upon  the  »krkness  of  her  life  •  noi 
could  she  leave  l:ehind  an  old  fur  cap,  beneath  which  she  had  oti?u 
Bought  a  kindly  smile,  and,  never  ha\-ing  sought  in  vain,  could 
hardly  realize  that  there  was  not  one  for  her  still  hidden  beneath 
its  crown.  There  were  some  toys  too,  and  picture-books,  gifts 
from  Willie,  a  little  basket  he  had  carved  for  her  from  a  nut,  and 
a  few  other  trifles. 

All  these  things,  excepting  the  lantern  and  cap,  Gertrude  had 
left  upon  the  mantel-piece ;  and  now,  upon  entering  the  room,  her 
eye  at  once  sought  her  treasures.  They  were  gone.  The  mantel- 
pieco  was  nicely  dusted,  and  quite  empty.  She  ran  towards  the 
corner,  where  she  had  left  the  old  box.  That  too  was  gone.  To 
rush  after  the  retreating  house-maid,  call  her  back,  and  pour  fmh 
a  succession  of  eager  inquiries,  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant. 

Bridget  was  a  new  comer,  a  remarkably  stupid  specimen,  but 
Gertrude  contrived  to  obtain  from  her  all  the  information  she 
needed.  The  image,  the  pipes  and  the  lantern,  were  thrown  among 
a  heap  of  broken  glass  and  crockery,  and,  as  Bridget  declared, 
Bmashed  all  to  nothing.  The  cap,  pronounced  moth-eaten,  had 
been  condemned  to  the  flames ;  and  the  other  articles,  Bridget 
could  not  be  sure,  but  "  troth,  she  belaved  she  was  just  afther 
laving  them  in  the  fireplace."  And  all  this  in  strict  accordance 
with  Mrs.  Ellis'  orders.  Gertrude  allowed  Bridget  to  depart 
unaware  of  the  greatness  of  her  loss ;  then,  shutting  the  door,  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  and  gave  way  to  a  violent  fit  of 
weeping. 

So  this,  thought  she,  was  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Ellis  was  so  will- 
Isg  to  forward  my  plans,  —  and  I  was  foolish  enough  to  believe  it 
was  for  my  own  sake  !  She  wanted  to  come  here  and  rob  me,  the 
thief! 

She  rose  from  the  bed  as  suddenly  as  she  had  thrown  herself 
down,  and  started  for  the  door ;  then,  sonic  new  thought  sccmmi^ 
to  check  her,  she  returned  again  to  the  bed-side,  and,  with  a  loud 
sob,  fiV.  unon  her  knees,  and  buried  her  face  in  ner  hands.  Once 
or  twice  she  lifted  her  head,  and  seemed  on  tbo  point  of  rioiag  and 
going  to  face  her  enemy.    But  each  time  something  came  across 


150 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


her  mind  nd  detained  her.  It  was  not  ^ear  ;  —  O,  no  !  Gertrud* 
was  not  afraid  of  anybody.  It  must  have  been  some  stronger 
motive  than  that.  Whatever  it  might  be,  it  was  something  that 
had,  on  the  whole,  a  soothing  influence ;  for,  after  every  fresh 
struggle,  she  grew  calmer,  and  presently,  rising,  seated  herself  in 
a  chair  by  the  window,  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  looked 
out.  The  window  was  open ;  the  shower  was  over,  and  the  smiles 
of  the  refreshed  and  beautiful  earth  were  reflected  in  a  glowing 
rainbow,  that  spanned  the  eastern  horizon.  A  little  bird  came, 
and  perched  on  a  branch  of  a  tree  close  to  the  window,  and  shouted 
forth  a  Te  Beum.  A  Persian  lilac-bush  in  full  bloom  sent  up  a 
delicious  fragrance.  A  wonderful  composure  stole  into  Gertrude's 
heart,  and,  ere  she  had  sat  there  many  minutes,  she  felt  "the 
grace  that  brings  peace  succeed  to  the  passions  that  produce 
trouble."  She  had  conquered ;  she  had  achieved  the  greatest  of 
earth's  victories,  a  victory  over  herself.  The  brilliant  rain- 
bow, the  carol  of  the  bird,  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms,  all  the 
bright  things  that  gladdened  the  earth  after  the  storm,  were  not 
Kalf  so  beautiful  as  the  light  that  overspread  the  face  of  the  young 
girl  when,  the  storm  within  her  laid  at  rest,  she  looked  up  to 
heaven,  and  her  heart  sent  forth  its  silent  offering  of  praise. 

The  sound  of  the  tea-bell  startled  her.  She  hastened  to  bathe 
her  face  and  brush  her  hair,  and  then  went  down  stairs.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  dining-room  but  Mrs.  Ellis ;  Mr.  Graham  had 
been  detained  in  town,  and  Emily  was  suffering  with  a  severe 
headache.  Consequently,  Gertrude  took  tea  alone  with  Mrs.  Ellis. 
The  latter,  though  unaware  of  the  great  value  Gertrude  attached 
to  her  old  relics,  was  conscious  she  had  done  an  unkind  thing ;  and 
aB  the  injured  party  gave  no  evidence  of  anger  or  ill  will,  not  even 
mentioning  the  subject,  the  aggressor  felt  more  uncomfortable  and 
.fortified  than  she  would  have  been  willing  to  allow.  The  matter 
was  never  recurred  to,  but  Mrs.  Ellis  experienced  a  stinging  con- 
sciousness of  the  fact  that  Gertrude  had  shown  a  superiority  to 
herself  in  point  of  forbearance. 

The  next  day,  Mrs.  Prime,  the  cook,  came  to  the  door  of  Emily's 
room,  and  obtaining  a  ready  admittance,  produced  the  little  basket, 
tnade  of  a  nuty  saying  "  I  wonder  now,  Miss  Enrily,  where  Miss  Ger 


TILE  LAMPLIGHTEH. 


L51 


trude  h ,  foi  I 've  found  her  little  basket  in  the  coal-hod,  and  1  guess 
she  '11  ])e  right  glad  on 't  —  't  an't  hurt  a  mite."  Emily  inquired 
"  What  basket  ?  "  and  the  cook,  placing  it  in  her  hands,  proceeded 
with  eagerness  to  give  an  account  of  the  destruction  of  Gertrude's 
property,  which  she  had  herself  witnessed  with  great  indignation. 
She  also  gave  a  piteous  description  of  the  distress  the  young  girl 
manifested  in  her  questioning  of  Bridget,  which  the  sympathizicg 
cook  had  overheard  from  her  own  not  very  distant  chamber. 

As  Emily  listened  to  the  story,  she  well  remembered  having 
thought,  the  previous  afternoon,  that  she  heard  Gertrude  sobbing 
in  her  room,  which  on  one  side  adjoined  her  own,  but  that  she 
afterwards  concluded  herself  to  have  been  mistaken.  "  Go,"  said 
she,  "  and  carry  the  basket  to  Gertrude ;  she  is  in  the  little  library ; 
but  please,  Mrs.  Prime,  don't  tell  her  that  you  have  mentioned 
the  matter  to  me."  Emily  expected,  for  several  days,  to  hear 
from  Gertrude  the  story  of  her  injuries ;  but  Gertrude  kept  her 
trouble  to  herself,  and  bore  it  in  silence. 

This  was  the  first  instance  of  complete  self-control  in  Gerty,  and 
the  last  we  shall  have  occasion  to  dwell  upon.  From  this  time 
she  continued  to  experience  more  and  more  the  power  of  govern- 
ing herself;  and,  with  each  new  effort  gaining  new  strength, 
became  at  last  a  wonder  to  those  who  knew  the  temperament  she 
had  had  to  contend  with.  She  was  now  nearly  fourteen  years  old, 
and  so  rapid  had  been  her  recent  growth  that,  instead  of  being 
below  the  usual  stature,  she  was  taller  than  most  girls  of  her  age. 
Freedom  from  study,  and  plenty  of  air  and  exercise,  prevented 
her,  however,  from  suffering  from  this  circumstance. 

Her  garden  was  a  source  of  great  pleasure  to  her,  and,  flowers 
seeming  to  prosper  under  her  careful  training,  she  had  always  a 
bouquet  ready  to  place  by  Emily's  plate  at  breakflist-time. 

Occasionally  she  went  to  see  her  friend  Miss  Patty  Pace,  and 
always  met  with  a  cordial  reception.  Miss  Patty's  attention  was 
very  much  engrossed  by  the  manufanture  of  paper  flow«-rs,  and,  aa 
a^ertrude's  garden  furnished  the  models,  ^lie  seldom  went  empty- 
handed  ,  but,  the  old  lady's  success  being  very  ill  proportioned  to 
ber  efforts,  it  wouLi  have  been  a  libel  upon  nature  to  pronounca 
aven  the  most  favorable  specimens  of  this  sort  of  fancy-work  tru€ 


1D2 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEi.. 


copies  of  the  original.  Miss  Patty  was  satisfied,  however ;  and  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  her  various  friends,  for  whom  the  large  biiDches 
were  intended  that  travelled  about  tied  to  her  waist  by  the  groen 
strinoj,  were  satisfied  also. 

Miss  Patty  seemed  to  have  a  great  many  friends.  J udging  from 
the  numbers  of  people  that  she  talked  about  to  Gertrude,  the  latter 
concluded  she  must  be  acquainted  with  everybody  in  Boston. 
Ai-d  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find  any  one  whose  intercourse 
extended  to  a  wider  circle.  She  had,  in  her  youth,  learned  an 
upholsterer's  trade,  which  she  had  practised  for  many  years  in  the 
employment  (as  she  said)  of  the  first  families  in  the  city ;  and  sr 
observing  was  she,  and  so  acute  in  her  judgment,  that  a  report  ac 
one  time  prevailed  that  Miss  Pace  had  eyes  in  the  back  of  her 
head,  and  two  pair  of  ears.  Notwithstanding  her  wonderful  vis- 
ionary and  comprehending  powers,  she  had  never  been  known  to 
make  mitjchief  in  families.  She  was  prudent  and  conscientious, 
and,  though  always  peculiar  in  her  habits  and  modes  of  expression, 
and  so  wild  in  some  of  her  fancies  as  to  be  often  thought  by 
strangers  a  little  cut,  she  had  secured  and  continued  to  retain  the 
good  will  of  a  great  many  kindly-disposed  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
at  whose  houses  she  was  always  well  received  and  politely  treated. 
She  calculated,  in  the  course  of  every  year,  to  go  the  rounds 
among  all  these  friends,  and  thus  kept  up  her  intimacy  with  house- 
holds in  every  member  of  which  she  felt  a  warm  personal  interest. 

Miss  Patty  labored  under  one  great  and  absorbing  regret,  and 
frequently  expatiated  to  Gertrude  on  the  subject ;  it  was,  that  she 
was  without  a  companion.  "  x\h,  Miss  Gertrude,"  she  would  some- 
times exclaim,  seeming  for  the  time  quite  forgetful  of  her  age  and 
infirmities,  "  I  should  do  vastly  well  in  this  world,  if  I  only  had  a 
companion ;  "  and  here,  with  a  slight  toss  of  the  head,  and  a  little, 
smirking  air,  she  would  add,  in  a  whisper,  "  and  you  must  know, 
my  dear,  I  somewhat  meditatfe  matrimony."  Then,  seeing  Ger- 
trude's hmk  of  surprise  and  amusement,  she  would  apologize  foi 
having  so  long  delayed  fulfilling  what  had  always  been  her  inten- 
tion ;  and,  at  the  same  time  that  she  admitted  net  being  a?  young 
as  she  had  once  been,  would  usually  close  with  the  remark,  '  It  is 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


15a 


enia,  tLro  inexorable;  but  I  cling  to  life,  Miss  Gertrude,  1 
cling  to  life,  and  may  marry  yet." 

On  the  subject  of  fiishion,  too,  she  would  declaim  at  great 
length,  avowing,  for  her  own  part,  a  rigid  determination  to  be 
moderj,  whatever  the  cost  might  be.  Gertrude  could  not  fail  to 
observe  that  she  had  failed  in  this  intention  as  signally  as  in  that 
of  securing  a  youthful  swain;  and  she  was  also  gradually  led  to 
conclude  that  Miss  Pace,  whatever  might  be  her  means,  was  a 
terrible  miser.  Emily,  who  knew  the  old  lady  very  well,  and  had 
often  employed  her,  did  not  oppose  Gertrude's  visits  to  the  cottage, 
and  sometimes  accompanied  her ;  for  Emily  loved  to  be  anmsed, 
and  Miss  Patty's  quaint  conversation  was  as  gi^eat  a  treat  to  her 
as  to  Gertrude.  These  calls  were  so  promptly  returned,  that  it 
was  made  very  evident  that  Miss  Patty  preferred  doing  the  greater 
part  of  th3  ^^siting  herself;  observing  which,  Emily  gave  her  a 
general  invitation  U  the  house,  of  which  she  was  not  slow  tc  avail 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


More  It  )alth,  dear  maid,  thy  soothing  presence  brings^ 
Than  purest  skies,  or  salutary  springs. 

Mrs.  BARBACiiD 

.Persons  who  own  residences  within  six  miles  of  a  large  citj 
cannot  bo  properly  said  to  enjoy  country  life.  They  have  large 
gardens,  oftentimes  extensive  grounds,  and  raise  their  own  fruit 
and  vegetables ;  they  usually  keep  horses,  drive  about  and  take 
the  air.  Some  maintain  quite  a  barn-yard  establishment,  and 
pride  themselves  upon  their  fat  cattle  and  Shanghae  fowls.  But, 
after  all,  these  suburban  residents  do  not  taste  the  charms  of  true 
country  life.  There  are  no  pathless  woods,  no  roaring  brooks,  no 
waving  fields  of  grain,  no  wide  stretches  of  pasture-land.  Every 
eminence  commands  a  view  of  the  near  metropolis,  the  hum  of 
which  is  almost  audible ;  and  every  hourly-omnibus,  or  train  of 
cars,  carries  one's  self,  or  one's  neighbor,  to  or  from  the  busy  mart. 

Those  who  seek  retirement  and  seclusion,  however,  can  no- 
where be  more  sure  to  find  it  than  in  one  of  these  half-country, 
half-city  homes ;  and  many  a  family  will,  summer  after  sunnner, 
resort  to  the  same  quiet  corner,  and,  undisturbed  by  visitors  or 
gossip,  maintain  an  independence  of  life  which  would  be  quite 
impossible  either  in  the  crowded  streets  of  the  town,  where  one's 
acquaintances  are  forever  dropping  in,  or  in  the  strictly  country 
villages,  where  every  new  comer  is  observed,  called  upon  and 
talked  about. 

Mr.  Graham's  establishment  was  of  the  medium  order,  and  lit- 
tle calculated  to  attract  notice.    The  garden  was  certainly  very 
beautiful,  abounding  in  rich  shrubbery,  summer-houses,  and  ai 
bors  covei'ed  with  grape-vines ;  but  a  high  board-fence  hid  it  from 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


155 


public  vhwj  and  the  house,  standing  back  from  Jke  road^  was 
rather  old-fashioned  and  very  unobtrusive  in  its  appearance. 

Excepting  his  horticultural  propensities,  Mr.  Graham's  associa- 
tions were  all  connected  with  the  city ;  and  Emily,  being  unfitted 
for  much  general  intercourse  with  society,  entertained  little  com- 
pany, save  that  of  the  neighbors  who  made  formal  calls,  and 
some  particular  friends,  such  as  Mr.  Arnold,  the  clergyman,  and 
a  few  intimates,  who  often  towards  evening  drove  out  of  town  to 
see  Emily  and  eat  fruit. 

The  summer  was  passing  away  most  happily,  and  Gertrude,  in 
the  constant  enjoyment  of  Emily's  society,  and  in  the  conscious- 
aess  that  she  was,  in  various  ways,  rendering  herself  useful  and 
important  to  this  excellent  friend,  was  finding  in  every  day  new 
causes  of  contentment  and  rejoicing,  when  a  seal  was  suddenly  set 
to  all  her  pleasure. 

Emily  was  taken  ill  with  a  fever,  and  Gertrude,  on  occasion 
of  her  first  undertaking  to  enter  the  sick  room,  and  share  in  its 
duties,  was  rudely  repulsed  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had  constituted 
herself  sole  nurse,  and  who  declared,  when  the  poor  girl  pleaded 
hard  to  be  admitted,  that  the  fever  was  catching,  and  Miss  Emily 
did  not  want  her  there,  —  that  when  she  was  sick  she  never  wanted 
any  one  about  her  but  herself. 

For  three  or  four  days  Gertrude  wandered  about  the .  house, 
inconsolable.  On  the  fifth  morning  after  her  banishment  from  the 
room,  she  saw  Mrs.  Prime,  the  cook,  going  up  stairs  with  some 
gruel;  and,  thrusting  into  her  hand  some  beautiful  rose-buds, 
which  she  had  just  gathered,  she  begged  her  to  give  them  to 
Emily,  and  ask  if  she  might  not  come  in  and  see  her. 

She  lingered  about  the  kitchen  awaiting  Mrs.  1  rime's  return, 
in  hopes  of  some  message,  at  least,  from  the  sufierer.  But  when 
the  cook  came  down  the  flowers  were  still  in  her  hand,  and,  as 
she  threw  them  on  the  table,  the  kind-hearted  woman  gave  vent 
to  her  feelings. 

"  Well !  folks  do  say  that  first-rate  cooks  and  nurses  are  allers 
%s  cross  as  bears!  'Tan't  for  me  to  say  whether  it's  so  'bout 
cooks,  but  'bout  nurses  there  an't  no  sort  o'  doubt !    I  would 


156 


THE   LAMP  LIGHT  JSa. 


not  want  to  go  there,  Miss  Gertrude ;  I  would  n  t  injure  you  bin 
what  she  'd  bite  jour  head  off." 

"Wouldn't  Miss  Emily  take  the  flowers?"  asked  Gertrude 
looking  quite  grieved. 

Well,  she  hadn't  no  word  in  the  matter.  You  know  shi 
couldn't  see  what  they  were,  and  Miss  Ellis  flung  'em  outsido 
lh3  door,  vowin'  I  might  as  well  bring  pison  into  the  room  with 
a  fever,  as  them  roses.  I  tried  to  speak  to  Miss  Emily,  but  Miss 
Ellis  set  up  such  a  hush-sh-sh  I  s'posed  she  was  goin'  to  sleep, 
and  jest  made  the  best  o'  my  way  out.  Ugh !  don't  she  scold 
when  there 's  anybody  sick  ?  " 

Gertrude  sauntered  out  into  the  garden.  She  had  nothing  to 
do  but  think  anxiously  about  Emily,  who,  she  feared,  was  very 
ill  Her  work  and  her  books  were  all  in  Emily's  room,  where 
they  were  usually  kept ;  the  library  might  have  furnished  amuse- 
ment, but  it  was  locked  up  So  the  garden  was  the  only  thing 
eft  for  her,  and  there  she  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning;  and  not 
that  morning  only,  but  many  others ;  for  Emily  continued  to 
grow  worse,  and  a  fortnight  passed  away  without  Gertrude's  see- 
ing her,  or  having  any  other  intimation  regarding  her  health  than 
Mrs.  Ellis'  occasional  report  to  Mr.  Graham,  who,  however,  as  he 
saw  the  physician  every  day,  and  made  frequent  visits  to  his 
daughter  himself,  aid  not  require  that  particular  information 
which  Gertrude  was  eager  to  obtain.  Once  or  twice  she  had 
ventured  to  question  Mrs.  Ellis,  whose  only  reply  v^as,  "Don't 
bother  me  with  questions  !  what  do  you  know  about  sickness  ?  " 

One  afternoon,  Gertrude  was  sitting  in  x  large  summer-house 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  ;  her  own  piece  of  ground,  fra- 
grant with  mignonette  and  verbena,  was  close  by,  and  she  was 
busily  engaged  in  tying  up  and  marking  some  little  papers  o'! 
seeds,  the  gleanings  from  various  seed-vessels,  when  she  waij 
startled  by  hearing  a  step  close  beside  her,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
Dr.  Jeremy,  the  family  physician,  just  entering  the  building. 

Ah  !  what  are  you  doing  ?  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  in  a  quick 
abrupt  manner,  peculiar  to  him.    "  Sorting  seeds,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Gerty,  looking  up  and  blushing,  as  she  saw 
tho  doctor's  keen  black  eyes  scrutinizing  her  face. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


157 


•*  Where  ha^e  I  seen  jou  before  ? "  asked  he,  in  the  same  blunt 

At  Mr.  Flint's." 

"Ah!  True  Flint's!  I  remember  all  about  it.  Ydu 're  his 
givl '  Nice  girl,  too  !  And  poor  True,  he 's  dead  !  Well,  he  -s  a 
loss  to  the  cominurJty  !  So  this  is  the  little  nurse  I  vised  to  see 
there.    Bless  me  !  how  cnildren  do  grow  !  " 

"Doctor  Jeremy,"  asked  Gertrude,  in  an  earnest  voice,  "will 
you  please  to  tell  me  how  Miss  Emily  is  ? " 

"  Emily  !  she  an't  very  well,  just  now." 

"  Do  you  think  she  '11  die  ?  " 

*  Die  !  No !  What  should  she  die  for  ?  I  won't  let  her  die, 
if  you  '11  help  me  keep  her  alive.  Why  an't  you  in  the  house, 
taking  care  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  might !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  starting  up ;  "I  wish 
1  might !  " 

"  What 's  to  hinder  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ellis,  sir  •  she  won't  let  me  in ,  she  says  Miss  Emily 
does  n't  want  anybody  but  her." 

"  She 's  nothing  to  say  about  it,  or  Emily  either  ;  it 's  my  bus' 
iiess,  and  I  want  you.  I 'd  rather  have  you  to  take  care  of  my 
patients  than  all  the  Mrs.  Ellises  in  the  world.  She  doesn't 
know  anything  about  nursing ;  let  her  stick  to  her  cranberry-sauce 
and  squash-pies.    So,  mind,  to-morrow  you  're  to  begin." 

"  0,  thank  you,  doctor  !  " 

"  Don't  thank  me  yet ;  wait  till  you 've  tried  it,  —  it 's  hard 
work  taking  care  of  sick  folks.    Whose  orchard  is  that  ?  '* 
Mrs.  Druce's." 
"  Is  that  her  pear-tree  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir." 

"  By  George,  Mrs.  Bruce,  I  '11  try  your  pears  for  you  !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  doctor,  a  man  somiC  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
Btout  and  active,  sprung  over  a  stone  wall,  which  separated  them 
from  the  orchard,  and,  carried  along  by  the  impetus  the  leap  bad 
p^iven  him,  reached  the  foot  of  the  tree  almost  at  a  bound. 

As  Gertrude,  full  of  mirth,  watched  the  proceeding,  she  observed 
the  doctor  stumble  over  some  obstacle,  and  only  save  himself  fron* 
14 


158 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK 


Tailing  oy  stretching  forth  both  hands,  and  sustaining  V^imself 
against  the  Luge  trunk  of  the  fine  old  tree.  At  the  same  instant 
a  head,  actorned  with  a  velvet  smoking-cap,  was  slowly  lifted  froio 
the  long  grass,  and  a  youth,  about  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of 
age,  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and  stared  at  the  unlooked-for 
intruder. 

Nothing  daunted,  the  doctor  at  once  took  offensive  gi'ound 
towards  the  occupant  of  the  place,  saying,  Get  up,  lazy  bones  ! 
What  do  you  lie  there  for,  tripping  up  honest  folks  ?  " 

"  Who  do  you  call  honest  folks,  sir  ? "  inquired  the  youth, 
apparently  quite  undisturbed  by  the  doctor's  epithet  and  inquiry. 

"  I  call  myself  and  my  little  friend  here  remarkably  honest 
people,",  replied  the  doctor,  winking  at  Gertrude,  who,  standing 
behind  the  wall  and  looking  over,  was  laughing  heartily  at  the 
way  in  which  the  doctor  had  got  caught. 

The  young  man,  observing  the  direction  of  the  latter's  eyes 
turned  and  gave  a  broad  stare  at  Gertrude's  merry  face. 
Can  I  dp  anything  for  you,  sir  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  came  here  to  help 
myself  to  pears ;  but  you  are  taller  than  I,  —  perhaps,  wiiit  ^he 
help  of  that  crooked-handled  cane  of  yours,  you  can  reach  that 
best  branch." 

"  A  remarkably  honorable  and  honest  errand  !  "  muttered  the 
young  man.   *'  I  shall  be  happy  to  be  engaged  in  so  good  a  cause." 

As  he  spoke,  he  lifted  his  cane,  which  lay  by  his  side,  and, 
drawing  down  the  end  of  the  branch,  so  that  he  could  reach  it 
with  his  hand,  shook  it  vigorously.  The  ripe  fruit  fell  on  every 
side,  and  the  doctor,  having  filled  his  pockets,  and  both  his  hands, 
started  for  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"  Have  you  got  enough  ? "  asked  the  youth,  in  a  very  lazy  tone 
of  voice. 

"  Plenty,  plenty,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Glad  of  it,"  said  the  boy,  indolently  throwing  limself  on  vh6 
grass,  and  still  staring  at  Gertrude. 

You  must  be  very  tired,"  said  the  doctor,  stepping  back  a 
pace  or  two  ;   *  I 'm  a  physician,  and  should  advise  a  nap. ' 

"  Are  you,  indeed  !  "  replied  the  youth,  in  the  same  half-drawl 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEJl. 


159 


mg,  half-ironical  tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had  previously  spoken , 
"  then  I  think  I  '11  take  your  advice  saying  which,  he  threw 
himself  back  upon  the  grass  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Having  emptied  his  pockets  upon  the  seat  of  the  summer-house 
and  invited  Gertrude  to  partake,  the  doctor,  still  laughing  so 
immoderately  at  his  boyish  feat  that  he  could  scarcely  eat  the 
fruit,  happened  to  bethink  himself  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Half-past  four  !  The  cars  go  in  ten 
minutes.    Who 's  going  to  drive  me  down  to  the  depot  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  Gertrude,  to  whom  the  question 
seemed  to  be  addressed. 

"  Where 's  George  ?  " 

"  He 's  gone  to  the  meadow  to  get  in  some  hay,  but  he  left 
white  Charlie  harnessed  in  the  yard ;  I  saw  him  fasten  him  to 
fche  chain,  after  he  drove  you  up  from  the  cars." 
Ah  !  then  you  can  drive  me  down  to  the  depot." 

"  I  can't,  sir ;  I  don't  know  how." 

"  But  you  must ;  I  '11  show  you  how.    You  re  not  afraid  ! 
"  0,  no,  sir  ;  but  Mr.  Graham  "— 

"Never  you  mind  Mr.  Graham  —  do  you  mind  me.  I'll 
answer  for  your  coming  back  safe  enough." 

Gertrude  was  naturally  courageous  ;  she  had  never  driven  before, 
but,  having  no  fears,  she  succeeded  admirably,  and,  being  often 
afterwards  called  upon  by  Dr.  Jeremy  to  perform  the  same  ser- 
vice,  she  soon  became  skilful  in  the  use  of  the  reins,  —  an  accom- 
plishment not  always  particularly  desirable  in  a  lady,  but  which, 
in  her  case,  proved  very  useful. 

Dr.  Jeremy  was  true  to  his  promise  of  installing  Gertrude  in 
Emily's  sick  room.  The  very  next  visit  he  made  to  nis  patient, 
he  spoke  in  terms  of  the  highest  praise  of  Gertrude's  devotion  to 
her  old  uncle,  and  her  capability  as  a  nurse,  and  asked  why  she 
had  been  expelled  from  the  chamber. 

"  She  is  timid,"  said  Emily,  "  and  is  afraid  of  catching  the 
Tever." 

"  Don't  believe  it,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy;  "  'tan't  like  her." 
"  Do  you  think  not  ?  "  inquired  Emily,  earnestly.  "  Mrs.  Ellis  - 
Told  a  lie."  interrupted  the  doctor     "  Gerty  wants  to  come 


160 


THE  l  AMPLIGHTER. 


and  ake  care  of  you,  and  she  knows  In-^i  as  well  as  Mifl.  Ellia^ 
any  day  ;  it  is  n  t  much  you  need  done.  You  want  quic^t,  and 
that's  what  you  can't  have,  with  that  great  talking  woman  about. 
So  I  '11  i^end  her  to  Jericho  to-day,  and  bring  my  little  Gertmde  up 
here.  She 's  a  quiet  little  mouse,  and  has  got  a  head  on  hei 
shoulders." 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Gertrude  could  provide  for  Emily 'a 
wants  any  better  or  even  as  well,  as  Mrs.  Ellis ;  and  Emily, 
knowing  this,  took  care  that  the  housekeeper  should  not  be  sent  to 
Jericho ;  for,  though  Dr.  Jeremy,  a  man  of  strong  prejudices,  dia 
not  like  her,  she  was  excellent  in  her  department,  and  could  not 
be  dispensed  with.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  Emily  would  not  have 
'nurt  her  feelings  by  letting  her  sec  that  she  was  in  any  degree 
superseded. 

So,  though  Emily,  Dr.  Jeremy  and  Gertrude,  were  all  made 
happy  by  the  free  admission  of  the  latter  to  the  sick  room,  the 
housekeeper,  unhandsomely  as  she  had  behaved,  was  never  con- 
scious that  any  one  knew  the  wrong  she  had  done  to  Gertrude,  in 
keeping  her  out  of  sight  and  giving  a  false  reason  for  her  continued 
absence. 

There  was  a  watchfulness,  a  care,  a  tenderness,  in  Gertrude, 
which  only  the  warmest  love  could  have  dictated. 

When  Emily  awoke  at  night  from  a  troubled  sleep,  found  a 
cooling  draught  ready  at  her  lips,  and  knew  from  Mrs.  Ellis'  deep 
snorino;  that  it  was  not  her  hand  that  held  it, — when  she  observed 
that  all  day  long  no  troublesome  fly  was  ever  permitted  to  approach 
her  pillow,  her  aching  head  was  relieved  b}^  hours  of  patient  bath- 
ing, and  the  little  feet  that  were  never  weary  were  always  noise- 
less, —  she  realized  the  truth,  that  Dr.  Jeremy  had  brought  her  a 
most  excellent  medicine. 

A  week  or  two  passed  away,  and  she  was  well  enough  to  sit  up 
n(uu-ly  all  the  time,  though  not  yet  able  to  leave  her  room.  A 
few  v/eeks  more,  and  the  doctor  began  to  insist  upon  air  and  exer- 
cise.   "  Drive  out  two  or  three  times  every  day,"  said  he. 

"  How  can  I  ? said  Emily.  George  has  so  much  to  do.  U 
will  be  very  inconvenient." 

Let  Gertrude  drive  you ;  she  is  a  capital  hand." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  161 

'•Gertrude,"  said  Emily,  smiling,"!  beliere  jol.  are  a  great 
ilivorite  of  the  doctor's  ;  he  thinks  you  can  do  any  thing,  i'ou 
Qever  drove  in  your  life,  did  you  ?  " 

"Hasn't  she  driven  me  to  the  d^p6t,  every  day,  for  those  sis 
^eeks  ^  "  inquired  the  doctor. 

•*  Is  it  possible  ?  "  asked  Emily,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  the 
idea  of  a  lady's  attempting  the  management  of  a  horse. 

Up:^  her  being  assured  this  was  the  case,  and  the  doctor 
insisting  tlat  there  was  no  danger,  Charlie  was  harnessed  into 
the  carryall,  and  Emily  and  Mrs.  Ellis  went  out  to  drive  with 
Gertrude ;  experiment  which,  being  often  repeated,  was  a 
source  of  health  to  the  invalid,  and  pleasure  to  them  all.  In 
the  early  autumn,  when  Emily's  health  was  quite  restored,  old 
Ch£.rlie  was  daily  called  into  requisition;  sometimes  Mrs.  Ellis 
accompanied  them,  but,  as  she  was  often  engaged  about  household 
duties,  they  usually  went  by  themselves,  in  a  large,  old-fashioned 
buggy,  and  Emily  declared  that  Gertrude's  learning  to  drive  had 
proved  one  of  the  greatest  sources  of  happiness  she  had  known  for 
years. 

Once  or  twice,  in  the  course  of  the  summer  and  autumn,  Ger- 
trude saw  again  the  lazy  youth  whom  Dr.  Jeremy  had  stumbled 
over  when  he  went  to  steal  pears. 

O'jce  he  came  and  sat  on  the  wall  while  she  was  at  work  in 
her  garden,  processed  himself  astonished  at  her  activity,  talked  a 
little  with  her  about  her  flowers,  asked  some  questions  concerning 
her  friend  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  ended  by  requesting  to  know  her 
name. 

Gertrude  blushed;  she  was  a  little  sensitive  about  her  name, 
and^  though  she  always  went  by  that  of  Flint,  and  did  not,  on 
ordinary  occasions;  think  much  about  it,  she  could  not  fail  to 
iemen:ber^  Trhen  the  question  was  put  to  her  point  blai^k  that  Jie 
had,  in  reality,  no  surname  of  her  own. 

Emily  had  endeavored  to  find  Nan  Grant,  m  order  to  learn  from 
her  something  of  Gertrude's  early  history ;  but  Nan  had  left  her 
old  habitation,  and,  for  years,  nothing  had  been  heard  of  her. 

Gertrude,  as  we  have  said,  bluslied  ""on  being  asked  her  name 
14^ 


162 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


but  replied,  with  dignity,  that  she  would  tell  hers,  pronded  her 
new  acquaintance  would  return  the  compliment. 

"  Shan't  do  it !  "  said  the  youth,  impudently,  "  and  don't  care 
about  knowing  years,  either  ;  "  saying  which,  he  kicked  an  apple 
with  his  foot,  and  walked  off,  still  kicking  it  before  him,  leaving 
Gertrude  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  the  most  ill-bred  person 
she       ever  seen. 


CHAPTER 


XX. 


i  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned,  . 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command. 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

WORDSWOBTB 

Ir  wai  i  le  twilight  of  a  sultry  September  day,  and,  ^nj&ried  with 
many  hours  endurance  of  an  excessive  heat,  unlookbd  for  so  late 
in  the  season,  Emily  Graham  sat  on  the  front  piazza  of  her  fath- 
er's house,  inhaling  a  delicious  and  refreshing  breeze,  which  had 
just  sprung  up.  The  western  sky  was  still  streaked  with  brilliant 
lines  of  red,  the  lingering  effects  of  a  gorgeous  sunset,  while  the 
moon,  now  nearly  at  the  full,  and  triumphing  in  the  close  of  day 
and  the  commencement  of  her  nightly  reign,  cast  her  full  beams 
upon  Emily's  white  dress,  and  gave  to  the  beautiful  hand  and  arm, 
which,  escaping  from  the  draperied  sleeve,  rested  on  the  side  of 
her  rustic  arm-chair,  the  semblance  of  polished  marble. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  Emily  was  first  introduced  to  the 
reader;  and  yet,  so  slight  were  the  changes  wrought  by  time  upon 
her  face  and  figure,  that  she  looked  scarcely  any  older  than  on 
the  occasion  of  he^  first  meeting  Gertrude  in  Mr.  Arnold's  church. 

She  had  even  then  experienced  much  of  the  sorrow  of  life,  and 
learned  how  to  distil  from  the  bitter  dregs  of  suffering  a  balm  for 
every  pain.  Even  then,  that  experience,  and  the  blessed  knowledge 
she  had  gained  from  it,  had  both  stamped  themselves  upon  her 
countenance  :  the  one  in  a  sobered  and  subdued  expression,  which 
usually  belongs  to  more  mature  years  ;  the  other,  in  thai  sweet,  calm 
smile  of  trust  and  hope,  which  proclaims  the  votary  c  f  Heaven. 

Therefore  time  had  little  power  upon  her,  and  as  she  was  then 
so  wa^  she  new  ;  lovely  in  her  outward  appearance,  and  still  moio 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


lovely  in  heart  and  life.  A  close  observer  might,  however,  per 
ceive  in  her  a  greater  degree  of  buoyancy  of  spirit,  keenness  of 
interest  in  v*'hat  was  going  on  about  her,  and  evident  enjoyment  of 
life,  than  she  had  formerly  evinced ;  and  this  was  due,  as  Emil}i 
felt  and  acknowledged,  to  her  recent  close  companionship  with  one 
to  whom  she  was  bound  by  the  warmest  affection,  and  who,  by  her 
lively  sympathy,  her  constant  devotion,  her  natural  appreciation 
of  the  entertaining  and  the  ludicrous,  as  well  as  the  beautiful  and 
the  true,  and  her  earnest  and  unsparing  efforts  to  bring  her  much- 
lovod  friend  into  communion  with  everything  she  herself  enjoyed, 
had  called  into  play  faculties  which  blindness  had  rendered  almost 
dormant,  and  become  what  Uncle  True  bade  her  be,  eyes  to  hei 
beneiactor. 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  as  Emil}^  sat  alone,  shut  out 
from  the  beautiful  sunset,  and  unconscious  of  the  shadows  that 
played  over  her  in  the  moonlight,  her  thoughts  seemed  to  be  sad. 
She  held  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  in  a  listening*  attitude,  and, 
as  often  as  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  gate  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
she  would  start,  while  a  look  of  anxiety,  and  even  pain,  would 
cross  her  features. 

At  length,  some  one  emerges  from  behind  the  high  fence  which 
screens  the  garden  from  public  gaze,  and  approaches  the  gate. 
None  but  Emily's  quick  ear  could  have  distinguished  the  light  step  , 
but  she  hears  it  at  once,  and,  rising,  goes  to  meet  the  new  comer, 
whom  we  must  pause  to  introduce,  for,  though  an  old  acquaintance, 
time  has  not  left  ker  unchanged,  and  it  would  be  haxd  to  recog- 
nise in  her  our  little  quondam  Gertrude. 

The  present  Gertrude  —  for  she  it  is  —  has  now  become  a  young 
lady.  She  is  some  inches  taller  than  Emily,  and  her  figure  is 
Blight  and  delicate.  Iler  complexion  is  dark,  but  clear,  and  ren« 
dcred  brilliant  by  the  rosy  hue  that  flushes  her  cheeks;  but  that 
may  be  the  effect  of  her  rapid  walk  from  the  railroad  station. 
She  has  taken  off  her  bonnet,  and  is  swinging  it  by  the  string,  —  a 
habit  she  always  had  as  a  child  ;  so  we  will  acquit  her  of  an^ 
coquettish  desire  to  display  an  uuusualiy  fine  head  of  hair. 

Gertrude's  eyes  have  retained  their  old  lustre,  and  do  noi  now 
look  too  large  ")r  her  face ;  and,  if  her  mouth  be  less  classicail/ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


165 


forraed  ban  the  strict  rule  of  beauty  would  commend,  one  can  easily 
Ibrgive  ttia^,  hi  considera^on  of  two  rows  of  small  pearly  teetli, 
which  are  as  rega^ir  and  even  as  a  string  of  beads.  Her  neat 
dress  of  spotted  inuslin  fits  close  to  her  throat,  and  her  simple  black 
mantle  does  not  cont<^il  the  roundness  of  her  taper  waist. 
What  then  ?    Is  Grertrude  a  beauty  ? 

13y  no  means.  Hers  is  a  f\ice  and  form  about  which  there 
would  be  a  thousand  different  opinions,  and  out  of  the  whole  num- 
ber few  would  pronounce  her  beautiful.  But  there  are  faces 
whose  ev^r-varying  expression  one  loves  to  watch,  —  tell-tale  faces, 
that  speak  the  truth  and  proclaim  the  sentiment  within ;  faces  that 
now  light  up  with  intelligence,  now  beam  with  mirth,  now  sadden 
at  the  tale  of  sorrow,  now  burn  with  a  holy  indignation  for  that 
which  the  soul  abhors,  and  now,  again,  are  sanctified  by  the  divine 
presence,  when  the  heart  turns  away  from  the  world  and  itself,  and 
looks  upward  in  the  spirit  of  devotion.    Such  a  face  was  Gertrude's. 

There  are  forms,  too,  which,  though  neither  dignified,  queenly  or 
fairy-like,  possess  a  grace,  an  ease,  a  self-possession,  a  power  of 
moving  lightly  and  airily  in  their  sphere,  and  never  being  in  any 
one's  way,  —  and  such  a  form  was  Gertrude's. 

Whatever  charm  these  attractions  might  give  her,  —  and  there 
were  those  who  estimated  it  highly, —  it  was  undoubtedly  greatly 
enhanced  by  an  utter  unconsciousness,  on  her  part,  of  possessing 
any  attractions  at  all.  The  early-engrafted  belief  in  her  own  per- 
sonal plainness  had  not  yet  deserted  her  ;  but  she  no  longer  felt 
the  mortification  she  had  formerly  labored  under  on  that  account. 

As  she  perceived  Miss  Graham  coming  to  meet  her,  she  quick 
ened  her  pace,  and,  joining  her  near  the  door-step,  where  a  path 
turning  to  the  right  led  into  the  garden,  passed  her  arm  affection- 
ately over  Emily's  shoulder,  in  a  manner  which  the  latter's  blind- 
ness, a^d  Gertrude's  superior  height  and  ability  to  act  as  guide, 
had  of  late  rendered  usual,  and,  turning  into  the  walk  which  led 
from  the  hous^j,  said,  while  she  drew  the  shawl  closer  around  hei 
blind  friend, 

"  Here  I  ar:  agair ,  Emily !  Have  you  been  alone  ever  since  I 
went  away  ?  " 

"  Tes,  dear,  most  of  the  time,  aud  have  been  quite  worried 


166 


THE  LAxMPUGHTEH. 


to  think  you  were  ravelling  about  in  Boston  this  excessively  warm 
day.'^ 

"  It  has  not  hurt  me  in  the  least ;  I  only  enjoy  this  cool  breeze 
all  the  more  ;  it  is  such  a  contrast  to  the  heat  and  dust  of  the 
city  I  " 

But,  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  stopping  short  in  their  walk,  "  what 
are  you  coming  away  from  the  house  for?  You  have  not  been  to 
tea,  my  child." 

"  I  know  it,  Emily,  but  I  don't  want  any  supper." 

They  walked  en  for  some  time,  slowly  and  in  perfect  silence. 
At  last  Emily  said, 

"  Well,  Gertrude,  have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  a  great  deal,  but  —  " 

"  But  you  know  it  will  be  sad  news  to  me,  and  so  you  don't  like 
to  speak  it ;  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  the  vanity,  dear  Emily,  to  think  it  would 
trouble  you  very  much ;  but,  ever  since  last  evening,  when  I  told 
you  what  Mr.  W.  said,  and  what  I  -had  in  my  mind,  and  you 
seemed  to  feel  so  badly  at  the  thought  of  our  being  separated,  I 
have  felt  almost  doubtful  what  it  was  right  for  me  to  do." 

"  And  I,  on  the  other  hand,  Gertrude,  have  been  reproaching 
myself  for  allowing  you  to  have  any  knowledge  of  my  feeling  in  the 
matter,  lest  I  should  be  influencing  you  against  your  duty,  or,  at 
least,  making  it  harder  for  you  to  fulfil.  I  feel  that  you  are  rio:ht, 
Gertrude,  and  that,  instead  of  opposing,  I  ought  to  do  everything 
I  can  to  forward  your  plans." 

Dear  Emily !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  vehemently,  "  if  yoi 
thought  so  from  what  I  told  you  yesterday,  you  would  be  con 
yinced,  had  you  seen  and  heard  all  that  I  have  to-day." 

**  Why  ?  are  matters  any  worse  than  they  were  at  Mrs.  SuUi 
ran's  ? " 

"  Much  worse  than  I  described  to  you.  I  did  not  then  know 
myself  all  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  to  contend  with ;  but  I  have 
been  at  their  house  nearly  all  the  time  sIlj  3  I  left  home  this  morn- 
ing (for  Mr.  W  did  not  detain  me  five  minutes),  and  it  reallj 
does  not  seem  to  me  safe  for  such  a  ti  nid,  delicate  woman  as  Mrs 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


167 


SaliJvan  to  te  alone  willi  Mr.  Cooper,  now  that  Ih  nmd  m  m 
such  a  dreadful  state." 

"  But,  do  you  think  you  can  do  any  good,  Gertrude  ? 

"  I  know  I  can,  dear  Emily;  I  can  manage  him  nmch  bette-- 
than  She  can  and  at  the  same  time  do  more  for  his  comfort  and 
happiness.  He  is  like  a  child  now,  and  full  of  whims.  When  ha 
can  possibly  be  indulged,  Mrs.  Sullivan  will  please  him  at  any 
amount  of  inconvenience,  and  even  danger,  to  herself;  not  yrdy 
because  he  is  her  father,  and  she  feels  it  her  duty,  but  I  actually 
think  she  is  afraid  of  him,  he  is  so  irritable  and  violent.  ^he 
tells  me  he  often  takes  it  into  his  head  to  do  the  strangest  things, 
such  as  going  out  late  at  night,  when  it  would  be  perfectly  unsafe, 
and  sleeping  with  his  window  wide  open,  though  his  room  is  on 
the  lower  floor." 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  exclaimed  Emily ;  "  what  does  she  do  in  such 
cases  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Emily,  for  I  saw  an  instance  of  it  to-day. 
When  I  first  went  in  this  morning,  he  was  preparing  to  make  a 
coal-fiT-e  in  the  grate,  notwithstanding  the  heat,  which  wa?i  becom- 
ing  intense  in  the  city." 

"  And  Mrs.  Sullivan  ?  »  said  Emily. 

"  Was  sitting  on  the  lower  stair,  in  the  front  entry,  crying." 
"  Poor  thing  !  "  murmured  Emily. 

"  She  could  do  nothing  with  him,"  continued  Gertrude,  "  and 
had  given  up  in  despair." 

^  ^  "  She  ought  to  have  a  strong  woman,  or  a  man,  to  take  care  of 
him.' 

"  That  is  what  she  dreads,  more  than  anything.  She  says  it 
would  kill  her  to  see  him  unkindly  treated,  as  he  would  be  sure  to 
be  by  a  stranger ;  and,  besides,  I  can  see  that  she  shrinks  from  the 
idea  of  having  any  one  in  the  house  to  whom  she  is  unaccustomed. 
She  is  exceedingly  neat  and  particular  in  all  her  arrangements, 
has  always  done  her  work  herself,  a:xi  declares  she  would  sooner 
admit  a  wild  beast  into  her  family  than  an  Irish  girl." 

"  Her  new  house  has  not  been  a  source  of  much  pleasure  to  hei- 
yet,  has  it  ?  " 

^'0,  no.    She  was  saying,  to-day,  how  strange  it  seemed, 


168 


THE  LAMPTJGIiTER 


when  she  had  been  looking  forward  so  long  to  the  comfort  of  a 
new  and  well-built  tenement,  that,  just  as  she  had  moved  in  and 
got  everything  furnished  to  her  mind,  she  should  have  this  great 
trial  come  upon  her." 

"  It  seems  strange  to  me,''  said  Emily,  "  that  she  did  not  sooner 
perceive  its  approach.  I  noticed,  when  I  went  with  you  to  tho 
house  in  E  street,  the  failm'e  in  the  old  man's  intellect." 

"  I  had  observed  it  for  a  long  time,"  remarked  Gertrude,  "  but 
never  spoke  of  it  to  her ;  and  I  do  not  think  she  was  in  the  least 
aware  of  it,  until  about  the  time  of  their  removal,  when  the 
breaking  up  of  old  associations  had  a  sad  effect  upon  poor  Mr. 
Cooper." 

Don't  you  think,  Gertrude,  that  the  pulling  down  of  the 
church,  and  his  consequent  loss  of  employment,  were  a  great 
injury  to  his  mind  ?  " 

Yes,  indeed,  I  am  sure  of  it ;  he  altered  very  much  after  that, 
and  never  seemed  so  happy,  even  while  they  were  in  the  house  in 

E  street ;  and  when  the  owners  of  that  land  concluded  to  take 

it  for  stores  and  warehouses,  and  gave  Mrs.  Sullivan  notice  that  she 
would  be  obliged  to  leave,  the  old  sexton's  mind  gave  way  entirely." 

Sad  thing  !  "  said  Emily.    "  How  old  is  he,  Gertrude  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  believe  he  is  very  old ;  I  remem- 
ber Mrs.  Sullivan's  telling  me,  some  time  ago,  that  he  was  near 
eighty." 

"  Is  he  so  old  as  that  ?  Then  I  am  not  surprised  that  these 
<Dhanges  )iave  made  him  childish." 

"  O,  no.  Melancholy  as  it  is,  it  is  no  more  than  we  may  any  of 
as  come  to,  if  we  live  to  his  age ;  and,  as  he  seems  for  the  most 
part  full  as  contented  and  happy  as  I  have  ever  seen  him  appear, 
I  do  not  lament  it  so  much  on  his  own  account  as  on  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van's.   But  I  do,  Emily,  feel  dreadfully  anxious  about  her,'' 

"  Does  it  seem  to  be  so  very  hard  for  her  to  bear  up  under  it  ?  " 
I  thii  k:  it  would  not  be,  if  she  were  well ;  but  there  is  something 
the  matter  with  her,  and  I  fear  it  is  more  serious  than  she  allows, 
for  she  looks  very  pale,  and  has,  I  know,  had  several  alarming  ill 
hirns  lately."  : 

"  Has  she  consulted  a  physician  ?  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


169 


•*  No ;  she  does  n't  wish  for  one,  and  insists  upon  it  she  shall 
Boon  be  better  ;  but  I  do  not  feel  sure  that  she  will,  es].'ecially  as 
she  takes  no  care  of  herself ;  and  that  is  one  great  reason  for  my 
wi.shing  to  be  in  town  as  soon  as  possible.  I  am  anxious  to  have 
Dr.  J ereniy  see  her,  and  I  think  I  can  bring  it  about  without  her 
knowing  that  he  comes  on  her  account.  I  '11  have  a  severe  cold 
myself,  if  I  can't  manage  it  in  any  other  way." 

"  You  speak  cf)nfidently  of  being  in  town,  Grertrude ;  so  I  sup- 
pose it  is  all  arranged." 

'  0,  I  have  not  told  you,  have  I,  about  my  visit  to  Mr.  W.  ? 
Dear,  good  man,  how  gratdful  I  ought  to  be  to  him !  He  has 
promised  me  the  situation." 

"  I  had  no  doubt  he  would,  from  what  you  told  me  he  said  to 
you  at  Mrs.  Bruce's." 

You  had  n't,  really !  Why,  Emily,  I  was  almost  afraid  to 
mention  it  to  him.  I  could  n't  believe  he  would  have  sufficient 
confidence  in  me ;  but  he  was  so  kind !  I  hardly  dare  tell  you 
Iv^hat  he  said  about  my  capacity  to  teach,  you  will  think  me  so 
rain." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,  my  darling ;  I  know,  from  his  own  lips, 
how  highly  he  appreciates  your  ability ;  you  could  not  tell  me 
anything  so  flattering  as  what  he  told  me  himself." 

"Dear  Uncle  True  always  wanted  me  to  be  a  teacher;  it  was 
the  height  of  his  ambition.  He  would  be  pleased,  wouldn't  he, 
dear  Emily  ?  " 

"  He  would  no  doubt  have  been  proud  enough  to  see  you  a*,, 
sistant  in  a  school  like  Mr.  W.'s.  I  am  not  sure,  however,  but  he 
would  think,  as  I  do,  that  you  are  undertaking  too  much.  You 
expect  to  be  occupied  in  the  school  the  greater  part  of  every 
morning,  and  yet  you  propose  to  establish  yourself  as  nurse  to 
Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  guardian  to  her  poor  old  father.  My  dear 
child,  you  are  not  used  to  so  much  care,  and  I  shall  be  constantly 
troubled  for  you,  lest  your  own  health  and  strength  give  way." 

"0,  dear  Emily,  there  is  no  occasion  for  any  anxiety  on  my 
account ;  I  am  well  and  strong,  and  fully  capable  of  all  that  I 
have  planned  for  myself.    My  only  dread  is  in  the  thought  of 


170 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


leaving  you ;  and  the  only  fear  I  have  is,  that  you  will  miss  me, 
and  perhaps  feel  as  if  —  " 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,  Gertrude.  You  need  not  fear 
that;  I  am  sure  of  your  affection.  I  am  confident  you  love  m^i 
Qext  to  your  dutj  and  I  would  not  for  the  world  that  you  should 
give  me  the  preference.  So  dismiss  that  thought  from  your  mind 
and  do  not  carry  with  you  the  belief  that  I  would  be  sslfish 
enough  to  desire  to  retain  you  a  moment.  I  only  wish,  my  dear, 
that  for  the  present  you  had  not  thought  of  entering  the  school. 
You  might  then  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  staid  as  long  as 
you  were  needed,  and  perhaps  found,  by  the  time  we  are  ready  tc 
start  on  our  southern  tour,  that  your  services  could  bo  quite  dis 
pensed  with ;  in  which  case,  you  could  accompany  us  on  a  journey 
which  I  am  sure  your  health  will  by  that  time  require. 

"  But,  dear  Emily,  how  could  I  do  that?  I  could  not  propose 
myself  as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Sullivan,  however  useful  I  might  intend 
to  be  to  her ;  nor  could  I  speak  of  nursing  to  a  woman  who  will  not 
acknowledge  that  she  is  ill.  1  thought  of  all  th^t,  and  it  seemed 
to  mc  impossible,  with  all  the  delicacy  and  tact  in  the  world,  to 
bring  it  about ;  for  I  have  been  with  you  so  long  that  Mrs.  Sul- 
livan, I  have  no  doubt,  thinks  me  entirely  unfitted  for  her  primitive 
way  of  life.  It  was  only  when  Mr.  W.  spoke  of  his  wanting  an 
assistant,  and,  as  I  imagined,  hinted  that  he  should  like  to  employ 
me  in  that  capacity,  that  the  present  plan  occurred  to  me.  I 
knew,  if  I  told  Mrs.  Sullivan  that  I  was  engaged  to  teach  therCj 
and  that  you  were  not  coming  to  town  at  all,  but  were  soon  g-ing 
south,  and  represented  to  her  that  I  wanted  a  boarding-place  for 
the  winter,  she  would  not  only  be  loth  to  refuse  me  a  home  with 
hei;  but  would  insist  that  I  should  go  nowhere  else." 
And  it  proved  as  you  expected  ?  " 

*•  Exactly  ;  and  she  showed  so  much  pleasure  at  the  thought  of 
my  being  with  her,  that  I  realized  still  more  how  much  she  needed 
Bomo  one." 

"  She  will  have  a  treasure  in  you,  Gertrude ;  I  know  that,  veiy 
well." 

"  No,  indeed !  I  do  not  hope  to  be  of  much  use.  The  feeling 
1  have  is,  that,  however  little  I  may  be  able  to  accomplish,  it  will 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


171 


be  more  tlian  any  one  e.se  could  do  for  Mrs.  SuUivar  She  has 
lived  Fo  retired  that  she  has  not  an  intimate  friend  in  the  city, 
and  I  Ao  not  ro^uly  know  of  any  one,  except  mvself,  whom  she 
would  willingly  admit  under  her  roof  She  is  used  to  me  and 
loves  me ;  I  am  no  restraint  upon  her,  and  she  allows  me  to  assist 
in  whatever  fjhe  is  doing,  although  she  often  says  that  1  live  a 
lady's  life  now,  and  am  not  used  to  work.    She  knows,  too,  that 

r.  ha  ve  an  influence  over  her  father;  and  I  kave,  strano'e  as  it 

may  seem  to  you,  —  I  have  more  than  I  know^  how  to  account  for 
myself     i  think  it  is  partly  because  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  him, 
and  am  firm  in  opposing  his  unreasonable  fancies,  and  partly  be 
cause  I  am  more  of  a  stranger  than  Mrs.  Sullivan.    But  there  is 
still  another  thing  which  gives  me  a  great  control  over  him.  He 
naturally  associates  me  in  his  mind  with  Willie ;  for  we  were  for 
some  years  constantly  together,  both  left  the  house  at  the  same 
time,  and  he  knows,  too,  that  it  is  through  me  that  the  corre- 
spondence with  him  is  chiefly  carried  on.    Since  his  mind  has  been 
so  weak,  he  seems  to  think  continually  of  Willie,  and  I  can  at 
any  moment,  however  irritable  or  wilful  he  may  be,  make  him 
calm  and  quiet  by  proposing  to  tell  him  the  latest  news  from  his 
grandson.    It  does  not  matter  how  often  I  repeat  the  contents  of 
the  last  letter,  it  is  always  new  to  him ;  and  you  have  no  idea, 
Emily,  what  power  this  little  circumstance  gives  me.    Mrs.  Sulli- 
van sees  how  easily  I  can  guide  his  thoughts,  and  I  noticed  what 
a  load  of  care  seemed  to  be  taken  from  her  mind  by  merely  having 
me  there  to-day.    She  looked  so  happy  when  I  came  away  to- 
night, and  spoke  so  hopefully  of  the  comfort  it  would  be  during 
the  winter  to  have  me  with  her,  that  I  felt  repaid  for  any  sacrifice 
it  has  been  to  me.    But  when  I  came  home,  and  saw  you,  and 
thought  of  your  going  so  far  away,  and  of  the  length  of  time  it 
might  be  before  I  should  live  with  you  again,  I  felt  as  if—  ' 
Gertrude  could  say  no  more.    She  laid  her  head  on  Emily's 
shoulder,  and  wept. 

Emily  soothed  her  with  the  greatest  tenderness.  "  We  have 
been  very  happy  together,  Gerty,''  said  she,  "  and  I  shall  miss 
you  sadly ;  half  the  enjoyment  of  my  life  has  of  late  years  been 
borrowed  Irom  you.    But  T  never  loved  you  iialf  so  we^l  as  I  do 


172 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


now,  at;  H.e  very  time  that  we  must  part;  for  1  «ee  (he  sacn 
fice  you  are  making  of  yourself  one  of  the  noDiest  and  most 
important  traits  of  character  a  woman  can  possess.  I  know  how 
much  you  love  the  Sullivans,  and  you  have  certainly  every  reason 
for  being  attached  to  them,  and  desiring  to  repay  your  old  obliga- 
tions ;  but  your  leaving  us  at  this  time,  and  renouncing,  without 
a  murmur,  the  southern  tour  from  which  you  expected  so  much 
ple-HSure,  proves  that  my  Gerty  is  the  brave,  good  girl  I  always 
hoped  and  prayed  she  might  become.  You  are  in  the  path  of 
duty,  Gertrude,  and  will  be  rewarded  by  the  approbation  of  your 
own  conscience,  if  in  no  other  way." 

As  Emily  finished  speaking,  they  reached  a  corner  of  the  gar- 
den,  and  were  here  met  by  a  servant-girl,  who  had  been  looking 
for  them  to  announce  that  Mrs.  Eruce  and  her  son  were  in  the 
parlor,  and  had  asked  for  them  both. 

"  Did  you  get  her  buttons  in  town,  Gertrude  ?  "  inquired  Emily. 

"  Yes,  I  found  some  that  were  an  excellent  match  for  the  dress ; 
she  probably  wants  to  know  what  success  I  had ;  but  how  can  I 
go  in?" 

I  will  return  to  the  house  with  Katy,  and  you  can  go  in  at 
the  side-door,  and  reach  your  own  room  without  being  seen.  I 
will  excuse  you  to  Mrs.  Bruce  for  the  present ;  and,  when  you 
have  bathed  your  eyes,  and  feel  composed,  you  can  come  in  and 
report  oancerning  the  errand  she  intrusted  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Bu  i  had  we  best  retire  1   I  see  a  storm. 

Milton. 

A.aaOKDiNGLY,  when  Gertrude  entered  the  room  half  an  hctif 
afterwards,  there  was  no  evidence  in  her  appearance  of  any 
unusual  distress  of  mind.  .  Mrs.  Bruce  nodded  to  her  good- 
naturedly  from  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  Mr.  Bruce  rose  and  offered 
his  chair,  at  the  same  time  that  Mr.  Graham  pointed  to  a  vacant 
window-seat  near  him,  and  said,  kindly,  "  Here  is  a  place  for  you? 
Gertrude." 

Declining,  however,  the  civilities  of  both  gentlemen,  she  with- 
drew  to  an  ottoman  which  stood  near  an  open  glass  door,  where 
she  was  almost  immediately  joined  by  Mr.  Bruce,  who,  seating 
himself  in  an  indolent  attitude  upon  the  upper  row  of  a  flight  of 
steps  which  led  from  the  window  to  the  garden,  commenced  con- 
versation with  her. 

Mr.  Bruce  —  the  same  gentleman  who  some  years  before  wore 
a  velvet  smoking-cap,  and  took  afternoon  naps  in  the  grass  —  had 
recently  returned  from  Europe,  and,  glorying  in  the  renown  ac- 
quired from  a  moustache,  a  French  tailor,  and  the  possession  of 
a  handsorce  property  in  his  own  right,  now  viewed  himsoif  with 
more  complacency  than  ever. 

"  So  you 've  been  in  Boston  all  day,  Mis.«^  Flint  ? 

"  Yes,  nearly  all  day." 

"  Did  n't  you  find  it  distressingly  warm  ?  " 

"  Somewhat  so." 

"  I  tried  to  go  in  to  attend  to  some  businc^  tW  mother  waj 
anxious  about,  and  even  went  down  to  the  depot ;  ^mt  I  had  Ut 
give  it  up." 

15=^ 


174 


THE  LAMPI  ':'^HTER. 


"  Were  you  overpowered  by  the  heat  ?  " 
"  I  was." 

"  How  unfortunate  !  "  remarked  Gertrude,  in  a  half-compassion- 
ate, half-ironical  tone  of  voice. 

Mr.  Bruce  looked  up,  to  judge,  if  possible,  from  her  counte 
nance,  whether  she  were  serious  or  not ;  but,  there  being  little 
light  in  the  room,  on  account  of  the  warmth  of  the  evening,  he 
could  not  decide  the  question  in  his  mind,  and  therefore  replied 
"I  dislike  the  heat.  Miss  Gertrude,  and  why  should  I  expose 
myself  to  it  unnecessarily  ?  " 

"  0,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  thought  you  spoke  of  important 
business." 

"  Only  some  affair  of  my  mother's.  Nothing  I  felt  any  interest 
iii,  and  she  took  the  state  of  the  weather  for  an  excuse.  If  I  had 
known  that  you  were  in  the  cars,  as  I  have  since  heard,  I  should 
3ertainly  have  persevered,  in  order  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
walking  down  Washington-street  with  you." 

"  I  did  not  go  down  Washington-street." 

"  But  you  would  have  done  so  with  a  suitable  escort,"  sug;- 
gested  the  young  man. 

"  If  I  had  gone  out  of  my  way  for  the  sake  of  accompanying 
my  escort,  the  escort  would  have  been  a  very  doubtful  advantage," 
Baid  Gertrude,  laughing. 

"  How  very  practical  you  are.  Miss  Gertrude  !  Do  not  mean 
to  say  that,  when  you  go  to  the  city,  you  always  have  a  settled 
plan  of  operations,  and  never  swerve  from  yom^  course  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  I  trust  I  am  not  difficult  to  influence  when 
there  is  a  sufficient  motive." 

The  young  man  bit  his  lip.  "  Then  you  never  act  without  a 
motive  ;  pray,  what  is  your  motive  in  wearing  that  broad-brimmed 
hat  when  yon  are  at  work  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  It  is  an  old  habit,  adopted  some  years  ago  from  motives  of 
convenience,  and  still  adhered  to,  in  spite  of  later  inventions,  which 
V^ould  certainly  be  a  better  protection  from  the  sun.  I  must 
plead  guilty,  I  fear,  to  a  little  obstinacy  in  my  partiality  for  that 
pld  hat." 

<•  Why  not  ackncwledge  the  truth.  Miss  Gertrude,  and  confess 


LAMPLIGHTKR. 


17h 


that  you  weal  ic  in  order  to  look  so  very  fanciful  and  picturesque 
that  the  neighbors'  slumbers  are  disturbed  by  the  very  thoughts 
of  it  ?  My  own  morning  dreams,  for  instance,  as  you  are  well 
aware,  are  so  haunted  by  that  hat,  as  seen  in  company  with  its 
owner,  that  I  am  dciily  drawn,  as  if  by  magnetic  attraction,  in  the 
direction  of -the  garden.  You  will  have  a  heavy  account  to  settle 
with  Morpheus,  one  of  these  days,  for  defrauding  him  of  his  rights ; 
and  your  conscience  too  will  suffer  for  injuries  to  my  health, 
sustained  by  continued  exposure  to  early  dews." 

"  It  is  hard  to  condemn  me  for  such  innocent  and  unintentional 
mischief ;  but,  since  I  am  to  experience  so  much  future  remorse  on 
account  of  your  morning  visits,  I  shall  take  upon  myself  tho 
responsibility  of  forbidding  them." 

"  O !  you  would  n't  be  so  unkind !  —  especially  after  all  the 
pains  I  have  taken  to  impart  to  you  the  little  I  know  of  horticul- 
ture." 

"  Yery  little  I  think  it  must  have  been  ;  or  I  have  but  a  little 
memory,"  said  Gertrude,  laughing. 

"  Now,  how  can  you  be  so  ungrateful  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
the  pains  I  took  yesterday  to  acquaint  you  with  the  different 
varieties  of  roses  ?  Don't  you  remember  how  much  I  had  to  say 
at  first  of  damask  roses  and  damask  bloom ;  and  how,  before  I  had 
finished,  I  could  not  find  words  enough  in  praise  of  blushes,  espe- 
cially such  sweet  and  natural  ones  as  met  my  eyes  while  I  was 
speaking  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense.  I  hope  you 
don't  think  I  listened  to  it  all." 

"  O,  Miss  Gertrude !  It  is  of  no  use  to  say  flattering  things 
fx)  you ;  you  always  look  upon  my  compliments  as  so  many  jokes." 

"  I  have  told  you,  several  times,  that  it  was  the  most  useless 
thing  in  the  world  to  waste  so  much  flattery  upon  me.  1  am  glad 
you  aie  beginning  to  realize  it." 

"  W ell,  then,  to  ask  a  serious  question,  where  were  you  thi^ 
morning  ?  " 

"  At  what  hour  ? 

*  Half-past  seven." 
On  my  way  to  Boston,  in  the  cars." 


176 


THE  LAMPLTGHTEK, 


"  Is  it  possible  ?  —  so  early !  Why,  I  thouglit  you  went  at  ten 
Then,  all  tb3  iime  I  was  watching  by  the  garden  wall  to  get  h 
chance  to  say  good-morning,  you  were  half  a  dozen  miles  away. 
I  wish  I  had  not  wasted  that  hour  so ;  I  might  have  spent  it  in 
sleeping." 

"  Very  true,  it  is  a  great  pity." 

"  And  then  half  an  hour  more  here  this  evening  !    How  came 
you  to  keep  me  waiting  so  long  ?  " 
«  I  ?  ^  When  ?  " 
*^  Why,  now,  to-night." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  doing  so.  I  certainly  did  not  take  yom 
visit  to  myself." 

"  My  visit  certainly  was  not  meant  for  any  one  else." 

»Ben,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  approaching  rather  abruptly,  and 
taking  part  in  the  conversation,  "  are  you  fond  of  gardening  ?  I 
thought  I  heard  you  just  now  speaking  of  roses." 

"  Yes,  su' ;  Miss  Flint  and  I  were  having  quite  a  discussion  upon 
flowers,  — roses  especially." 

Gertrude,  availing  herself  of  Mr.  Graham's  approach,  tried  to 
make  her  escape  and  join  the  ladies  at  the  sofa ;  but  Mr.  Bruce, 
who  had  risen  on  Mr.  Graham's  addi'essing  him,  saw  her  inten- 
tion, and  frustrated  it  by  placing  himself  in  the  way,  so  that  she 
could  not  pass  him  without  positive  rudeness.  Mr.  Graham 
continued,  I  propose  placing  a  small  fountain  in  the  vicinity  of 
Miss  Flint's  flowei'-garden ;  won't  you  walk  down  with  me,  and 
give  your  opinion  of  my  plan  ?  " 

"  Is  n't  it  too  dark,  sir,  to  —  " 

"  No,  no,  not  at  all ;  there  is  ample  light  for  our  pui'pose ;  thia 
way,  if  you  please ;  "  and  Mr.  Bruce  was  compelled  to  follow 
where  Mr.  Graham  led,  though,  in  spite  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Paris  manners,  he  made  a  wry  face,  and  shook  his  head  men- 
acingly. 

Gertrude  was  now  permitted  to  relate  to  Mrs.  Bruce  the  results 
of  the  shopping  which  she  had  undertaken  on  her  account,  and 
display  the  buttons,  which  proved  very  satisfactory.  The  gentle- 
men, soon  after  returning  tc  the  parlor,  took  seats  near  the  sofa 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


177 


ana.  h€  company  forming  one  group,  the  conversation  Decam(^ 
gentral. 

"  Mr.  Graham,"  said  Mrs.  Bruce,  "  I  have  been  questioning 
E  aily  about  your  visit  to  the  south  ;  and,  from  the  route  which 
^he  tells  jue  you  propose  taking,  I  think  it  will  be  a  charming 
trip." 

"  I  hope  so,  madam,  —  we  have  been  talking  of  it  for  some 
time;  it  will  be  an  excellent  thing  for  Emily,  and,  as  Gertinde 
has  never  travelled  at  al],  I  anticipate  a  great  deal  of  pleasure 
for  her." 

"  Ah  !  then  you  are  to  be  of  the  party.  Miss  Flint  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  answered  Mr.  Graham,  without  givim^ 
5-ertrude  a  chance  to  speak  for  herself ;  "we  depend  upon  Ger- 
trude,—  could  n't  get  along  at  all  without  her." 

*'  It  will  be  delightful  for  you,"  continued  Mrs.  Bruce,  her  eyes 
still  fixed  on  Gertrude. 

"  I  did  expect  to  go  with  Mr.  and  Miss  Graham,"  answered 
Gertrude,  "  and  looked  forward  to  the  journey  with  the  greatest 
eagerness;  but  I  have  just  decided  that  I  must  remain  in  Boston 
this  winter." 

"  What  are  you  talking  abvut,  Gertrude  ?"  asked  Mr.  Graham. 
What  do  you  mean  ?    This  is  all  news  to  me." 

"  And  to  me,  too,  sir,  or  I  should  have  informed  you  of  it 
before.  I  supposed  you  expected  me  to  accompany  you,  and 
there  is  nothing  I  >^^uld  like  so  much.  I  should  have  told  you 
before  of  the  circumstances  that  now  make  it  impossible  ;  but 
they  are  of  quite  recent  occurrence." 

"  But  we  can 't  give  you  up,  Gertrude  •  I  won't  hear  of  such  a 
Mng  ;  you  must  go  with  us,  in  spite  of  circumstances." 

I  fear  I  sha'il  not  be  able  to,"  said  Gertrude,  smiling  pleas- 
antly, but  still  retaining  her  firmness  of  expression ;  "  you  are 
very  kind,  sir,  to  wish  it," 

"  Wish  it !  —  I  tell  you  I  insist  upon  it.  You  are  under  my 
rare,  child,  and  I  have  a  right  to  say  what  you  shall  do." 

Mr.  Graham  was  beginning  to  get  excited.  Gertrude  and 
Q  nuy  both  looked  troubled,  but  neither  of  them  spoke. 

Give  me  ycir  reasons,  if  you  have  any    added  Mr.  Grahanv 


178 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


vehement ly,  "  and  let  m€  know  what  ha:;  put  this  tstrange  DOtioQ 
nto  your  head." 

I  will  explain  it  to  jou  to-morrow,  sir.'' 
'*  To-morrow  !  I  want  to  know  now." 

Mrs.  Bruce,  plainly  perceiving  that  a  family  storm  was  brew- 
ing,  wisely  rose  to  go.  Mr.  Graham  suspended  his  wrath  until 
she  and  her  son  had  taken  leave ;  but,  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
closed  upon  them,  burst  forth  with  real  anger. 

Now  tell  m^  what  all  this  means !  Here  I  plan  my  business, 
and  make  all  my  arrangements,  on  purpose  to  be  able  to  give  up 
this  winter  to  travelling,  —  and  that,  not  so  much  on  my  own 
account  as  to  give  pleasure  to  both  of  you,  —  and,  just  as  every- 
ihing  is  settled,  and  we  are  almost  on  the  point  of  starting,  Ger- 
trude announces  that  she  has  concluded  not  to  go.  Now,  I 
should  like  to  know  her  reasons." 

Emily  undertook  to  explain  Gertrude's  motives,  and  ended  by 
expressing  her  own  approbation  of  her  course.  As  soon  as  she 
had  finished,  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  listened  very  impatiently,  and 
interrupted  her  with  many  a  "pish  !  "  and  "  pshaw  !"  burst  forth 
with  redoubled  indignation. 

So  Gerty  prefers  the  Sullivans  to  us,  and  you  seem  to  en- 
courage her  in  it !  I  should  like  to  know  what  they  'vs  ever  dona 
for  her,  compared  with  what  I  have  done  !  " 

"  They  have  been  friends  of  hers  for  years,  and,  now  that  they 
are  in  great  distress,  she  does  not  feel  as  if  she  could  leave  them ; 
and  I  confess  I  do  not  wonder  at  her  decision." 

"  I  must  say  I  do.  She  prefers  to  make  a  slave  of  herself  in 
Mr.  W.'s  school,  and  a  still  greater  slave  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's  fam- 
ily, instead  of  staying  with  us,  where  she  has  always  been  treated 
like  a  lady,  and,  more  than  that,  like  one  of  my  own  family !  " 

"  0,  Mr.  Graham  !  "  said  Gertrude,  earnestly,  "  it  is  not  a 
natter  of  preference  or  choi-^e,  except  as  I  feel  it  to  be  a  duty." 

"  And  what  makes  it  a  duty  ?  Just  because  you  used  to  live 
•ji  the  Game  house  with  them,  and  that  boy  out  in  Calcutta  has 
sent  you  home  a  camel 's-hair  scarf,  and  a  cage-full  of  miserable 
li'tie  birds,  and  written  you  n  reat  package  of  letters,  you  think 
you  mmt  forfeit  your  own  interests  to  take  care  of  his  sick  rela^ 


fHE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


i79 


fcions!  I  can't  saj  that  I  see  how  their  claim  compar3s  with 
mine.  Have  n't  I  given  you  the  best  of  educations,  and  spared  no 
expense  either  for  your  improvement  or  your  happiness  ? " 

<*I  did  not  think,  sir,"  answered  Gertrude,  humbly,  and  yet 
with  quiet  dignity,  "  of  counting  up  the  favors  I  had  received, 
and  measuring  my  conduct  accordingly.  In  that  case,  my  obli- 
gations to  you  are  immense,  and  you  would  certainly  have  ik^ 
greatest  claim  upon  my  services." 

"  Services  !  I  don't  want  your  services,  child.  Mrs.  Ellis  can 
do  quite  as  well  as  you  can  for  Emily,  or  me  either ;  but  I  like 
your  company,  and  think  it  is  very  ungrateful  in  you  to  leave  us, 
as  you  talk  of  doing." 

"  Father,"  said  Emily,  I  thought  the  object,  in  giving  Ger- 
trude a  good  education,  was  to  make  her  independent  of  all  the 
world,  and  not  simply  dependent  upon  us." 

"  Emilj^"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  I  tell  you  it  is  a  matter  of  feel- 
ing)—  you  don't  seem  to  look  upon  the  thing  in  the  light  I 
do ;  but  you  are  both  against  me,  and  I  won't  talk  any  more 
about  it." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Graham  took  a  lamp,  went  to  his  study,  shut 
the  door  hard,  —  not  to  say  slammed  it,  —  and  was  seen  no  more 
that  night. 

Poor  Gertrude  !  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  been  so  kind  and 
generous,  who  had  seldom  before  spoken  harshly  to  her,  and  had 
always  treated  her  with  great  indulgence,  was  now  deeply  offend- 
ed He  had  called  her  ungrateful ;  he  evidently  felt  that  she 
had  abused  his  kindness,  and  believed  that  he  and  Emily  stood  ia 
her  estimation  secondary  to  other,  and,  as  he  considered  them, 
far  less  warm-hearted  friends.  Deeply  wounded  and  gri  ^ved,  sbi* 
hastened  to  say  good-night  to  the  no  hss  afflicted  Emily,  aiid 
fieeking  her  own  room,  gave  way  to  feelings  th  if  esbaustcd  her 
«p'Tit,  and  caused  her  a  sleepless  night. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearfiii 

Shakspeabb 

Left  at  three  years  of  age  dependent  upon  the  mercy  and 
charity  of  a  world  in  which  she  was  friendless  and  alone,  Ger- 
trude had,  during  the  period  of  her  residence  at  jSfan  Grant's 
found  little  of  that  mercy,  and  still  less  of  that  charity.  But, 
although  her  turbulent  spirit  rebelled  at  the  treatment  she  re- 
ceived, she  was  then  too  young  to  reason  upon  the  subject,  or 
come  to  any  philosophical  conclusions  upon  the  general  hardness 
and  cruelty  of  humanity  ;  and,  had  she  done  so,  such  impressions 
could  not  but  have  been  effaced  amid  the  atmosphere  of  love  and 
kindness  which  surrounded  her  during  the  succeeding  period 
when,  cherished  and  protected  in  the  home  of  her  kind  foster 
father,  she  enjoyed  a  degree  of  parental  tenderness  which  rarely 
falls  to  the  lot  of  an  orphan. 

And  having,  through  a  similar  providence,  found  in  Emily  ad- 
ditional proof  of  the  fact  that  the  tie  of  kindi'ed  blood  is  not 
always  needed  to  bind  heart  to  heart  in  the  closest  bonds  of 
sympathy  and  affection,  she  had  hitherto,  in  her  unusually  happy 
experience,  felt  none  of  the  evils  that  spring  from  dependence 
upon  the  bounty  of  strangers.  The  unfriendly  conduct  of  Mrs. 
Ellis  had,  at  times,  been  a  source  of  irritation  to  her ;  but  the 
housekeeper's  power  and  influence  in  the  family  were  limited  by 
her  own  dependence  upon  the  good  opinion  of  tliose  she  served, 
and  Gertrude's  patience  and  forbearance  had  at  last  nearly  dis- 
armed her  enmity. 

From  Mr.  Graham  she  had  until  now  experienced  only  kind- 
ness. On  her  first  coming  to  live  with  them,  he  had,  to  be  sure, 
Uken  very  little  notice  of  her,  and,  so  long  as  she  was  quiet,  well 


THE  LAMPLTGHTEK. 


181 


f'^ani  Aed,  ai)d  no  trouble  to  anybody,  had  been  quite  mdifferent 
eoncerning  her.  He  observed  that  Emily  was  fond  of  the  gir] 
-ind  liked  to  have  her  with  her ;  and,  though  he  wondered  at  her 
taste,  was  glad  th^^^t  she  should  be  indulged.  It  was  not  long 
however,  before  he  was  led  to  notice  in  his  daughter's  favorite  a 
quickness  of  mind  and  propriety  of  deportment  which  had  the 
affect  of  creating  an  interest  in  her  that  soon  increased  to  posi- 
tive partiality,  especially  when  he  discovered  her  taste  for  gar- 
dening, and  her  perseverance  in  laboring  among  her  flowers.  He 
not  only  set  off  a  portion  of  his  grounds  for  her  use,  but,  charmed 
with  her  success  during  the  first  summer  after  the  appropriation 
was  made,  added  tr  the  original  flower-garden,  and  himself 
assisted  in  laying  out  and  ornamenting  it.  Emily  formed  no  plan 
with  regard  to  G-ertrude's  education  to  which  she  did  not  obtain 
a  ready  assent  from  her  father;  and  Gertrude,  deeply  grateful  for 
so  much  bounty,  spared  no  pains  to  evidence  her  sense  of  obli- 
gation and  regard,  by  treating  Mr.  Graham  with  thq  greatest 
respect  and  attention. 

But,  unfortunately  for  the  continuance  of  these  amicable  rela- 
tions, Mr.  Graham  possessed  neither  the  disinterested,  forbearing 
spirit  of  Uncle  True,  or  the  saintly  patience  and  self-sacrifice  of 
Emily.  Mr.  Graham  was  a  liberal  and  highly  respectable  man; 
he  had  the  reputation,  as  the  world  goes,  of  being  a  remarkably 
high-minded  and  honorable  man ;  and  not  without  reason,  for  his 
conduct  had  oftentimes  justified  this  current  report  of  him.  But, 
alas  !  he  was  a  selfish  man,  and  often  took  very  one-sided  views.  He 
had  supported  and  educated  Gertrude,— he  liked  her, —  she  raa 
the  person  whom  he  preferred  for  a  travelling  companion  for 
himself  and  Emily,  —  nobody  else  had  any  claim  upon  her  to 
compare  with  his,  —  and  he  either  could  not  ov  would  not  see  that 
her  duty  lay  in  any  other  direction. 

And  yet,  while  he  was  ready  to  act  the  tyrant,  he  deceived 
himself  with  the  idea  that  he  was  the  best  friend  she  had  in  the 
world.  He  was  not  capable  of  understanding  that  kind  of 
regard  which  causes  one  to  find  gratification  in  whatever  tends  to 
the  present  or  future  welfare  of  another,  withoat  reference  to 
hiaiself  or  his  own  interests  Acting,  therefore,  under  the  ir.iiu 
16 


182 


THE  LAMPLIGHTLR. 


eace  ot  his  OT^n  prejudiced  and  narrow  sentiments.  Mr.  Graham 
gave  way  to  his  ill-temper,  and  distressed  Grertrude  by  the  first 
really  harsh  and  severe  language  he  had  ever  used  towards  her. 

During  the  long  hours  of  a  wakeful  and  restless  night,  Ger- 
tiude  had  ample  time  to  review  and  consider  her  own  situation 
and  circumstances.  At  first,  her  only  emotion  was  one  of  grief 
and  distress,  such  as  a  child  might  feel  on  being  reproved  ;  but 
that  gradually  subsided,  as  other  and  bitter  thoughts  rose  up  in 
her  mind.  "What  right,"  thought  she,  "  has  Mr.  Graham  to  treat 
me  thus, —  to  tell  me  I  shall  go  with  them  on  this  southern  journey, 
and  speak  as  if  my  other  friends  were  ciphers  in  his  estimation, 
and  ought  to  be  in  my  own  ?  Does  he  consider  that  my  freedom 
is  to  be  the  price  of  my  education,  ane"  am  I  no  longer  to  be  able 
to  say  yes  or  no  ?  Emily  does  not  thmk  so ;  Emily,  who  loves 
and  needs  me  a  thousand  times  more  than  Mr.  Graham,  thinks  I 
have  acted  rightly,  and  assured  me,  only  a  few  hours  ago,  that  it 
was  my  duty  to  carry  out  the  plans  I  had  formed.  And  my 
solemn  promise  to  Willie  !  is  that  to  be  held  for  nothing  ?  No," 
thought  she,  it  would  be  tyranny  in  Mr.  Graham  to  insist  upon 
my  remaining  with  them,  and  1  am  glad  I  have  resolved  to  break 
away  from  such  chraldom.  Besides,  I  was  educated  to  teach, 
and  Mr.  W.  says  it  is  important  to  commence  at  once,  while  my 
studies  are  fresh  in  my  mind.  Perhaps,  if  I  yielded  now,  and 
staid  here  living  in  luxury,  I  should  continue  to  do  so  until  1 
lost  the  power  of  regaining  my  independence.  It  is  cruel  in  Mr. 
Graham  to  try  to  deprive  me  of  my  free-will." 

So  much  said  pride  ;  and  Gertrude's  heart,  naturally  proud, 
and  only  kept  in  check  by  strict  and  conscientious  self-control 
listened  a  while  to  such  suggestions.  But  not  long.  She  had 
accustomed  herself  to  view  the  conduct  of  others  in  that  epirit 
of  charity  which  she  desired  should  be  exercised  towards  her 
own,  and  milder  thoughts  soon  took  the  place  of  these  excited 
and  angry  feelings. 

Perhaps,"  said  she  to  herself,  as  she  reviewed  in  her  mind 
the  conversation  of  the  evening,  "  it  is,  after  all,  pure  kindness  ta 
me  that  prompted  Mr.  Graham's  interference.  He  may  think 
AS  Emily  doeSj  tlat  i  am  undertaking  too  much.    It  is  impossi 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


bie  foi  him  to  know  how  strong  my  motives  are>  how  deep  I  uon- 
8ider  my  obligations  to  the  Sullivans,  and  how  lixxQh  I  am 
needed  by  them  at  this  time.  I  had  no  idea,  eith.r^  that  at  was 
Buch  an  understood  thing  that  I  was  to  be  cf  the  y'^tty  to  the 
south  •  for,  though  Emily  talked  as  if  she  took  it  for  granted, 
Mr.  Graham  never  spoke  of  it,  or  asked  me  to  go,  and  I  could 
not  suppose  it  would  be  any  great  disappointment  to  him  to  have 
tt.e  refuse ;  but,  after  his  planning  the  journey,  as  he  sajs  he  has 
done,  with  reference  to  the  enjoyment  of  us  both,  I  do  not  wonder 
at  his  being  somewhat  annoyed.  He  probably  feels,  too,  as  if  I 
had  been  under  his  guardianship  so  long  that  he  has  almost  a 
righb  to  decide  upon  my  conduct.  And  he  /las  been  very  indul- 
gent to  me, —  and  I  a  stranger,  with  no  claims  !  Oil  hate  to 
have  him  think  me  so  ungrateful ! 

"  Shall  I  then  decide  to  give  up  my  teaching,  go  to  the  south, 
and  leave  dear  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  suffer,  perhaps  die,  while  I  am 
away  ?  No,  that  is  impossible.  I  will  never  be  such  a  traitor  to 
my  own  heart,  and  my  sense  of  right ;  sorry  as  I  shall  be  to 
offend  Mr.  Graham,  I  must  not  -^llow  fear  of  his  anger  to  turn 
me  from  my  duty." 

Having  thus  resolved  to  ^r^v^  tho  tempest  that  she  well  knfjw 
she  must  encountor,  and  committed  her  cause  to  Him  who  judgeth 
righteously,  Gertrude  tried  to  compose  herself  to  sleep;  but 
found  it  impossible  to  obtain  any  untroubled  rest.  Scarcely  had 
slumber  eased  her  mind  of  the  weight  that  pressed  upon  it,  before 
dreams  of  an  equally  painful  nature  seized  upon  her,  and  startled 
her  back  to  consciousness.  In  some  of  these  visions  she  beheld 
Mr,  Graham,  angry  and  excited  as  on  the  previous  evening,  and 
tiircatening  her  with  the  severest  marks  of  his  displeasure  if  she 
dared  to  thwart  his  plans ;  and  then,  again,  she  seemed  to  see 
Willie,  tie  same  boyish  youth  from  whom  she  had  parted  nearly 
five  years  before,  beckoning  her  \\>h  a  sad  countenance  to  the 
room  where  his  pale  mother  lay  in  a  swoon,  as  Gertrude  had  a 
few  weeks  before  discovered  her.  Exhausted  by  a  succession  of 
such  harassing  images,  she  at  length  gave  up  the  attempt  to  obtain 
any  rest  through  sleep,  and,  rising,  seated  herself  at  the  window 
where,  watching  the  no^Y  descending  moon,  and  the  first  approa'-'l! 


184 


THE  LAMPL.jHTER. 


of  dawn,  she  found,  in  quiet  self-communing,  the  streugth  -dm 
courage  which,  she  felt,  would  be  requisite  to  carry  her  calmly 
and  firmly  through  the  following  day  ;  a  day  destined  to  witness 
her  sad  separation  from  Emily,  and  her  farewell  to  Mr.  Graham, 
which  would  probably  be  of  a  still  more  distressing  character. 
It  may  seem  strange  that  anything  more  than  ordinary  mental 
courao-e  and  decision  should  be  needful  to  sustain  Gertrude  under 
the  present  emergency.  But,  in  truth,  it  required  no  small 
amount  of  both  these  qualities  for  a  young  girl  of  eighteen  yeai^, 
long  dependent  upon  the  liberality  of  an  elderly  man,  well  known 
as  a  stern  dictator  in  his  household,  to  suddenly  break  the  bonds 
of  custom  and  habit,  and  mark  out  a  course  for  herself  in  oppo- 
sition to  his  wishes  and  intentions ;  and  nothing  but  an  urgent 
motive  could  have  led  the  grateful  and  peace-loving  Gertrude  to 
such  a  stop.  The  tyrannical  disposition  of  Mr.  Graham  was  well 
anderstood  in  his  family,  each  member  of  which  was  accustjmed 
to  respect  all  his  wishes  and  whims;  and  though  he  was  always 
indulgent,  and  usually  kind,  none  ever  ventured  to  brave  a  tem- 
per,  which,  when  excited,  was  violent  in  the  extreme.  It  cannot 
then  be  surprising  that  Gertrude's  heart  should  have  almost  failed 
her,  when  she  stood,  half  an  hour  before  breakfast-time,  with  the 
handle  of  the  dining-room  door  in  her  hand,  summoning  all  her 
energies  for  another  meeting  with  the  formidable  opposer  of  her 
plans.  She  paused  but  a  moment,  however,  then  opened  the  dooi 
and  went  in.  Mr.  Graham  was  where  she  expected  to  see  him, 
sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  and  on  the  breakfast- table  by  his  side 
lay  the  morning  paper.  It  had  been  Gertrude's  habit,  for  a  year 
or  two,  to  read  that  paper  aloud  to  the  old  gentleman  at  this 
same  hour,  and  it  was  for  that  very  purpose  she  had  now  ccruG 

She  advanced  towards  him  with  her  usual  "  good-morning." 

The  salutation  was  returned  in  a  purposely  constrained  voice. 
She  seated  herself,  and  leaned  forward  to  take  the  newspaper 
t)ut  he  placed  his  hand  upon  it  and  prevented  her. 
I  wae  going  to  read  the  news  to  you,  sir." 

"  And  I  do  not  wish  to  have  you  read,  or  do  anything  else  for 
until  I  know  whether  you  have  concluded  to  treat  with 
the  respect  1  have  a  right  to  demand  from  you." 


THE  LA-MPLIGHTER. 


185 


1  certaialj  never  intended  to  treat  you  otherwise  than  with 
itMpect,  Mr.  Graham." 

"  When  gii  Is  or  boys  set  themselves  up  in  opposition  to  those 
older  and  wiser  than  themselves,  they  manifest  the  greatest  dis- 
respect they  are  capable  of ;  but  I  am  willing  to  forgive  the  past, 
if  you  assure  me,  as  I  think  you  will  after  a  night's  reilectioiij 
that  you  have  returned  to  a  right  sense  of  your  duty." 

"  I  cannot  say,  sir,  that  I  have  changed  my  views  with  regard 
to  what  that  duty  is." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  asked  Mr.  Graham,  rising  from,  his 
chair  and  speaking  in  a  tone  which  made  Gerty's  heart  quake, 
in  spite  of  her  brave  resolutions,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  have  any  idea  of  persisting  in  your  folly  ? " 

"  Is  it  folly,  sir,  to  do  right  ? 

"  Right !  —  There  is  a  great  difference  of  opinion  between  you 
cind  me  as  to  what  right  is  in  this  case." 

"  But,  Mr.  Graham,  I  think,  if  you  knew  all  the  circumstances, 
you  would  not  blame  my  conduct.  I  have  told  Emily  the  reasons 
that  influenced  me,  and  she  —  " 

"  Don't  quote  Emily  to  me  !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Graham,  as  he 
walked  the  floor  rapidly.  "  I  don't  doubt  she 'd  give  her  he^ad 
to  anybody  that  asked  for  it ;  but  I  hope  I  know  a  little  better 
what  is  due  to  myself ;  and  I  tell  you  plainly,  Miss  Gertrude 
Flint,  without  any  more  words  in  the  matter,  that  if  you  leave 
my  house,  as  you  propose  doing,  you  leave  it  with  my  displeasure ; 
and  thit^  you  may  find  one  of  these  days,  it  is  no  light  thing  to 
have  incurred, — unnecessarily,  too,"  he  muttered, —  "  as  you  aro 
doing." 

I  am  very  sorry  to  displease  you,  Mr.  Graham,  but  —  " 
No,  you  're  not  sorry ;  if  you  were,  you  would  not  wais 
straight  in  the  face  of  my  wishes,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  who  began 
to  observe  the  expression  of  Gertrude's  face,  which,  though 
grieved  and  troubled,  had  in  the  last  few  manuten  acquired  addi- 
tional firmness,  instead  of  quailing  beneath  his  severe  and  cutting 
words;  —  "  but,  I  have  said  enough  about  a  matter  which  is  not 
worthy  of  so  much  notice.  You  can  go  or  stay,  as  you  please. 
I  wish  you  to  understand,  however,  that,  in  the  for  mer  case,  i 
16# 


186 


IHE  LAMPLIGHT]]ll. 


utt'crlj  witb  Iraw  my  protection  and  assistance  from  y-m.  Yoii 
must  take  care  of  yourself,  or  trust  to  strangers.  I  suppose  you 
oxpect  }  our  Calcutta  friend  will  support  you,  perhaps  come  jome 
and  take  you  under  his  especial  care ;  but,  if  you  think  so,  you 
know  little  .f  the  world.  I  daresay  he  is  married  to  an  Indian 
by  this  tima,  and,  if  not,  has  pretty  much  forgotten  you." 

Mr.  G-raham,"  said  Gertrude,  proudly,  "  Mr.  Sullivan  wili 
not  probably  return  to  this  country  for  many  years,  and  I  assure 
yuu  I  neither  look  to  him  or  any  one  else  for  support ;  I  intend 
to  earn  a  maintenance  for  myself." 

A  heroic  resolve  !  "  said  Mr.  Graham,  contemptuously,  "  and 
pronounce"  with  a  dignity  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  maintain. 
Am  I  to  c  /Jisidcr,  then,  that  your  mind  is  made  up  ?  " 

"  It  is.  sir,"  said  Gertrude,  not  a  little  strengthened  for  the 
dreaded  necessity  of  pronouncing  her  final  resolution  by  Mr. 
Grah.gn's  sarcastic  speeches. 

"  \nd  you  go  ?  " 

*<•  [  must.  I  believe  it  to  be  my  duty,  and  am  therefore  will- 
in/  to  sacrifice  my  own  comfort,  and,  what  I  assure  you  I  value 
f  I   more,  your  friendship." 

Mr.  Graham  did  not  seem  to  take  the  least  notice  of  the  latter 
/  art  of  her  remark,  and  before  she  had  finished  speaking  so  far 
'  )rgot  his  usual  politeness  as  to  drown  her  voice  in  the  violent 
inging  of  the  table-bell. 

It  was  answered  by  Katy  with  the  breakfast  and  Emily  and 
Mrs.  Ellis  coming  in  at  the  same  moment,  all  seated  themselves 
at  table,  and  the  meal  was  commenced  in  unusual  silence  and 
constraint,  —  for  Emily  had  heard  the  loud  tones  of  her  father's 
voice,  and  was  filled  with  anxiety  and  alarm,  while  Mrs.  Ellis 
plainly  saw,  from  the  countenances  of  all  present,  that  something 
unpleasant  had  occurred. 

When  Mr.  Graham,  whose  appetite  appeared  undiminished, 
had  finished  eating  a  hearty  breakfast,  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Ellis, 
and  dcliberatel}-  and  formally  invited  her  to  accompany  himself 
and  Emily  on  their  journey  to  the  south,  mentioning  the  proba* 
bilitj  that  they  should  pass  some  weeks  in  Havana. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had  never  before  heard  any  Intimation  thai 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


187 


such  a  tour  was  contemplated,  accepted  the  invitation  with  pleas- 
ure and  alacrity,  and  proceeded  to  ask  a  number  o^"  questions 
concerning  the  proposed  route  and  length  of  absence ;  while  Emily 
hid  her  agitated  face  behind  her  tea-cup ;  and  Gertrude,  who 
had  lately  been  reading  "  Letters  from  Cuba,"  and  was  aware 
that  Mr.  Graham  knew  the  strong  interest  she  consequently  felt 
in  the  place,  pondered  in  her  mind  whether  it  were  possible  that 
he  could  be  guilty  of  the  small  and  mean  desire  to  vex  and 
mortify  her. 

Breakfast  over,  Emily  hastily  sought  her  room,  where  she  was 
immediately  joined  by  Gertrude. 

In  answering  Emily's  earnest  inquiries  as  to  the  scene  which 
had  taken  place,  Gertrude  forebore  to  repeat  Mr.  Graham's  most 
bitter  and  wounding  remarks ;  for  she  saw,  from  her  kind  friend's 
pained  and  anxious  countenance,  how  deeply  she  participated  in 
her  own  sense  of  wrong  and  misapprehension.  She  told  her, 
however,  that  it  was  now  well  understood  by  Mr.  Graham  that 
she  was  to  leave,  and,  as  his  sentiments  towards  her  were  far 
from  kindly,  she  thought  it  best  to  go  at  once,  especially  as  she 
could  never  be  more  needed  by  Mrs.  Sullivan  than  at  present. 
Emily  saw  the  reasonableness  of  the  proposal,  assented  to  it,  and 
agreed  to  accompany  her  to  town  that  very  afternoon ;  for,  deeply 
iJensitive  at  any  unkindness  manifested  towards  Gertrude,  she 
preferred  to  have  her  depart  thus  abruptly,  rather  than  encounter 
her  father's  contemptuous  neglect. 

The  remainder  of  the  day,  therefore,  was  spent  by  Gertrude  in 
packing,  and  other  preparations;  while  Emily  sat  by,  counselling 
and  advising  the  future  conduct  of  her  adopted  darling,  lamenting 
the  necessity  of  their  separation,  and  exchanging  with  her  reiter- 
ated assurances  of  continued  and  undiminished  affection. 

"  0 !  if  you  could  only  write  to  me,  dear  Emily,  during  your 
long  absence-  what  a  comfort  it  would  be !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude. 

"  With  Mrs.  Ellis'  assistance,  my  dear,"  replied  Emily,  "  I 
will  send  you  such  news  as  I  can  of  our  movements ;  but,  though 
you  may  not  be  able  to  hear  much  from  me,  yoLi  will  be  ever  in 
my  thoughts,  and  I  shall  never  forget  to  commend  mj  beloved 


188 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


child  to  the  protection  and  care  of  One  who  will  be  t<i  her  a 
better  counsellor  and  friend  than  I  can  be." 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Gertrude  sought  Mrs.  Ellis,  and 
astonished  that  lady  by  announcing  that  she  had  come  to  have 
a  few  farewell  words  with  her.  Surprise  and  curiosity,  however 
were  soon  superseded  by  the  housekeeper's  eagerness  to  expatiate 
upon  the  kindness  and  generosity  of  Mr.  Grraham,  and  the 
delights  of  the  excursion  in  prospect.  After  wishing  her  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure,  Gertrude  begged  to  hear  from  her  by  letter 
during  her  absence ;  to  which  apparently  unheard  request  Mrs. 
Ellis  only  replied  by  asking  if  Gertrude  thought  a  thibet  dres& 
would  be  uncomfortable  on  the  journey ;  and,  when  it  was  repeated 
with  still  greater  earnestness,  she,  with  equal  unsatisfactoriness  to 
th-e  fuppliant  for  epistolary  favors,  begged  to  know  how  many  pairs 
of  under-sleeves  she  should  probably  require.  Having  responded 
to  her  questions,  and  at  last  gained  her  ear  and  attention,  Gertrude 
obtained  from  her  a  promise  to  write  cnie,  letter,  which  would,  she 
declared,  be  more  than  she  had  done  for  years. 

Before  leaving  the  house,  Gertrude  sought  Mr.  Graham's  study, 
m  hopes  that  he  would  take  a  friendly  leave  of  her ;  but,  on  her 
telling  him  that  she  had  come  to  bid  him  "  good-by,"  he  indis- 
tinctly muttered  the  simple  words  of  that  universal  formula,  so 
deep  in  its  meaning  when  coming  from  the  heart ;  so  chilling 
when  uttered,  as  on  the  present  occasion,  by  stern  and  nearly 
closed  lips ;  and,  turning  his  back  upon  her,  took  up  the  tongs  to 
mend  his  fire. 

So  she  went  away,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye  and  sadness  in  her 
heart,  for  until  now  Mr.  Graham  had  been  a  good  friend  to  her. 

A  far  different  scene  awaited  her  in  the  upper  kitchen,  where 
she  went  to  seek  Mrs.  Prime  and  Katy. 

"  Bless  yer  soul,  dear  Miss  Gertrude  !  "  said  the  former,  stum- 
bling up  the  staircase  which  led  from  the  lower  room,  and  wiping 
her  hands  on  her  apron,  —  "  how  we  shall  miss  yer  !  Why,  the 
house  won't  be  worth  livin'  in  when  you're  out  of  it.  My  gra- 
cious !  if  you  don't  come  back,  we  shall  all  die  out  in  a  fort> 
night.    Why,  you  're  the  life  and  soul  of  the  place !    But  there 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


189 


1  guess  you  know  wha:  s  right ;  so,  if  you  must  go,  Tve  must  bear 
it.  —  though  Katy  and  I'll  cry  our  eyes  out,  for  aught  I  know/' 

"Sure,  Miss  Gairthrude,"  said  Irish  Katy,  "and  it's  right 
gude  in  you  to  be  afther  comin'  to  bid  us  good-by.  I  don't  see 
how  you  gets  memory  to  think  of  us  all,  and  I 'm  shure  yer  '11 
never  be  betther  off  than  what  I  wish  yer.  I  can't  but  think, 
miss,  it  '11  go  to  help  yer  along,  that  everybody's  gude  wishes 
and  blessin'  goes  with  yer." 

"  Thank  you,  Katy,  thank  you,"  said  Gertrude,  much  touched 
ly  the  simple  earnestness  of  these  good  friends.  "  You  must 
ccme  and  see  me  some  time  in  Boston ;  and  you  loo,  Mrs.  Prime, 
I  shall  depend  upon  it.  Good-by ;  "  and  the  gcod-by  that  Twm 
fell  upon  Gertrude's  ear  was  a  hearty  and  a  true  one ;  it  followed 
her  through  the  hall,  and  as  the  carryall  drove  away  ske  he&/d 
ft  minglmg  with  the  rattling  of  the  vehicle 


or  AFTER    XXI  I. 


OziQ  cf  hat  stubborn  sort  he  is, 
Who,  if  they  once  grow  fond  of  an  opinion. 
They  call  it  honor,  honesty  and  faith, 
And  sooner  part  with  life  than  let  it 

RowK. 

Fassinq  <j  ver  Gertrude's  parting  with  Emilj,  her  cordial  recep. 
fcicn  by  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  her  commencement  of  school  dutiss 
W8  will  look  in  upon  her  and  record  the  events  of  a  day  ia 
November,  about  two  months  after  she  left  Mr.  Graham's. 

Rising  with  the  sun,  she  made  her  neat  toilet  in  a  room  so 
cold  that  before  it  was  completed  her  hands  were  half-benumbed; 
nor  did  she,  in  spite  of  the  chilling  atmosphere,  omit,  ere.  she  com- 
menced the  labors  of  the  day,  to  supplicate  Heaven's  blessing 
upon  them.  Then,  noiselessly  entering  the  adjoining  apartment, 
where  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  still  sleeping,  she  lit  a  fire,  the  materials 
for  which  had  be^n  carefully  prepared  the  night  before,  in  a  small 
grate,  and,  descending  the  stairs  with  the  same  light  footstep,  per- 
formed a  similar  service  at  the  cooking-stove,  which  stood  in  a 
comfortable  room,  where,  now  that  the  weather  was  cold,  the 
family  took  their  meals.  The  table  was  set,  and  the  preparations 
for  breakfast  nearly  completed,  when  Mrs,  Sullivan  entered,  pale 
thin  and  feeble  in  her  appearance,  and  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  she,  "  why  will  you  let  me  sleep  so,  mornings, 
while  you  are  up  and  at  work?  I  believe  it  has  happened  so 
every  day  this  week." 

"For  the  very  best  reason  in  the  world,  auntie;  because  I 
Bleep  all  the  early  part  of  the  night,  and  am  wide  awake  at  day* 
break,  and  with  you  it  is  just  the  reverse.    Besides.  I  like  to  get 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


19i 


fche  breakfast,  I  make  such  beautiful  coffee.  Icok'"  said  sbe^ 
pouring  some  intc>  a  cup,  and  then  lifting  the  lid  of  the  coffee-pot 
and  pouring  it  back  again ;  "  see  how  clear  it  is  !  Don't  jou  lonij; 
for  some  of  it,  this  cold  morning  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sullivan  smiled,  for,  Uncle  True  having  always  preferred 
tea,  G-ertrude  did  not  at  first  know  how  to  make  coffee,  and  had 
been  obliged  to  come  to  her  for  instructions. 

*'Now,"  said  Gertrude,  playfully,  as  she  drew  a  comfortable 
chair  close  to  the  fire,  "  I  want  you  to  sit  down  here  and  watch  the 
tea-kettle  boil,  while  I  run  and  see  if  Mr.  Cooper  is  ready  to  lef 
me  tie  up  his  cue.  ^ 

She  went,  leaving  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  think  what  a  good  girl  she 
was  and  presently  returning  with  the  old  man,  who  was  dressed 
wi^h  perfect  neatness,  she  placed  a  chair  for  him,  and  having  wait- 
ed, ts  for  a  child,  while  he  seated  himself,  and  then  pinned  a 
napkin  about  his  throat,  she  proceeded  to  place  the  breakfast 
or*  the  table. 

While  Mrs.  Sullivan  poured  out  the  coffee,  Gertrude,  with  a 
quiet  tact  which  rendered  the  action  almost  unobserved,  removed 
the  skin  from  a  baked  potato  and  the  shell  from  a  boiled  es:^, 
and,  placing  both  on  the  plate  destined  for  Mr.  Cooper,  handed 
him  his  breakfast  in  a  state  of  preparation  which  obviated  the 
difficulty  the  old  man  experienced  in  performing  these  tasks  for 
himself,  and  spared  Mrs.  Sullivan  the  anxiety  she  always  felt  at 
witnessing  his  clumsiness  and  sadly-increasing  carelessness  on 
those  points  of  neatness  so  sacred  in  her  eyes.  Poor  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van  had  no  appetite,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  Gertrude  persuaded 
her  to  eat  anything ;  a  few  fried  oysters,  however,  unexpectedly 
placed  before  her,  proved  such  a  temptation  that  she  was  induced 
to  t^aste  and  finally  to  eat  several,  with  a  degree  of  relish  she 
rarely  felt,  lately,  for  any  article  of  food.  As  Gertrude  gazed  at 
her  languid  face,  she  realized,  more  than  ever  before,  the  change 
which  had  come  over  the  active,  energetic  little  woman ;  and,  con- 
fident that  nothing  but  positive  disease  could  have  effected  such 
^  transformation,  she  resolved  that  not  another  day  should  pass 
without  her  seeing  a  physician. 

Breakfast  over,  there  were  dishes  to  wash,  rooms  to  be  out  iu 


192 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


order,  dinner  to  be  decided  on  and  partially  prepared ;  and  all 
this  Gertrude  exerted  herself  and  saw  accomplished,  chieflj 
through  her  own  labor,  before  she  went  to  rearrange  her  dress, 
previous  to  her  departure  for  the  school,  where  she  had  now  been 
some  weeks  installed  as  assistant  teacher.  A  quarter  before 
nine  she  looked  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  said,  in  a  cheering  tone, 
to  the  old  man,  who  was  cowering  gloomily  over  the  fire, 

"  Come,  Mr.  Cooper,  won't  you  go  over  and  superintend  the 
new  church  a  little  while,  this  morning  ?  Mr.  Miller  will  be  ex- 
pecting you ;  he  said  yesterday  that  he  depended  on  your  company 
when  he  was  at  work. " 

The  old  man  rose,  and  taking  his  great-coat  from  Gertrude, 
put  it  on  with  her  assistance,  and  accompanied  her  in  a  mechanical 
sort  of  way,  that  seemed  to  imply  a  great  degree  of  indifierenca 
whether  he  went  or  stayed.  As  they  walked  in  silence  down 
the  street,  Gertrude  could  not  but  revolve  in  her  mind  the  singular 
coincidence  which  had  thus  made  her  the  almost  daily  companion 
of  another  infirm  old  man  ;  nor  could  she  fail  to  draw  a  compari- 
son between  the  genial,  warm-hearted  Uncle  True,  and  the  gloomy, 
discontented  Paul  Cooper,  who,  never,  as  we  have  said,  possessing 
a  genial  temperament,  now  retained,  in  his  state  of  mental  imbe- 
cility, his  old  characteristics  in  an  exaggerated  form.  Unfavorable 
as  the  comparison  necessarily  was  to  the  latter,  it  did  not  diminish 
the  kindness  and  thoughtfulness  of  Gertrude  towards  her  present 
charge,  who  was  in  her  eyes  an  object  of  sincere  compassion. 
They  soon  reached  the  new  church  of  which  Gertrude  had  spoken, 
—  a  handsome  edifice,  built  on  the  site  of  the  old  building  in  which 
M^.  Cooper  had  long  officiated  as  sexton.  It  was  not  yet  finished, 
and  a  number  of  workmen  were  at  this  time  engaged  in  the  com- 
pletion of  the  interior. 

A  man  with  a  hod-full  of  mortar  preceded  Gertrude  and  her 
companion  up  the  steps  which  led  to  the  main  entrance,  but 
Btopped  inside  the  porch,  on  hearing  himself  addressed  by  name 
and,  laying  down  his  burden,  turned  to  respond  to  the  well-known 
voice. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Flint,"  said  he.  *' I  hope  you're  verj 
well,  this  fine  day.    Ah !  Mr.  Coopor,  you 've  come  to  help  n.c  a 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


193 


ML,  I  ^oe ;  —  that 's  right !  We  can't  go  on  very  weL  without 
you-— ^you 'rc^  so  used  to  the  place.  HGr(3,  tdr,  if  you '11  come 
v?ith  me,  1  '11  show  you  what  has  been  done  since  you  were  here 
last;  I  want  to  know  how  you  think  we  get  along." 

So  staying,  he  was  walking  away  with  the  old  sexton ;  but  Ger- 
trude fuiiowed,  and  detained  him  a  moment,  to  ask  if  he  would  do 
her  the  nwor  to  see  Mr.  Cooper  safe  home  when  he  passed  Mrs. 
Sullivan's  nouse  on  his  way  to  dinner. 

Certahily,  Miss  Flint,"  replied  the  man,  "  with  all  the  pleasure 
in  the  world ,  ne  has  usually  gone  with  me  pretty  readily,  when 
ycu  have  left  mm  in  my  care." 

Having  obtained  this  promise,  Gertrude  hastened  towards  the 
school,  rejoicing  in  the  certainty  that  Mr.  Cooper  would  be  safe 
and  well  amused  during  the  morning,  and  that  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
freed  from  all  responsibility  concerning  him,  would  be  left  to  the 
rest  and  quiet  she  so  much  needed. 

This  cordial  coadjutor  in  Gertrude's  plan  of  diverting  and 
occupying  the  old  man^s  mind  was  a  respectable  mason,  who  had 
often  been  in  Mr.  Graham's  employ,  and  whose  good-will  and 
gratitude  Gertrude  had  won  by  the  kindness  and  attention  she 
had  shown  his  family  during  the  previous  winter,  when  they  were 
sick  and  afflicted.  In  her  daily  walk  past  the  church,  she  had 
frequently  seen  Mr.  Miller  at  his  work,  and  it  occurred  to  her 
that,  if  she  could  awaken  in  Mr.  Cooper's  mind  an  interest  in  the 
new  structure,  he  might  find  amusement  in  coming  there  and 
watching  the  workmen.  She  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading 
him  to  visit  a  building  to  the  erection  of  which  he  had  been  ve- 
hemently  opposed,  not  only  because  it  was  inimical  to  his  interests, 
but  on  account  of  the  strong  attachment  he  had  for  the  old  place 
of  worship.  Once  there,  however,  he  became  interested  in  the 
work,  and,  as  Mr.  Miller  took  pains  to  make  him  comfortable, 
and  even  awakened  in  him  the  belief  that  he  was  useful,  he  grad- 
ually acquired  a  habit  of  passing  the  greater  part  of  every  morning 
m  watching  the  men  engaged  in  their  various  brunches  of  industry! 
Sometimes  Gertrude  called  for  him  on  her  return  from  school;  and 
sometimes,  as  on  the  present  occasion,  Mr.  Miller  iindertook  U 
accompany  him  home. 

17 


194 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Since  Gertrude  liad  been  at  Mrs.  Sullivan  s  tlicre  was  a  very 
perceptible  alteration  in  Mr.  Cooper.  He  was  much  more  maii- 
ageable,  looked  better  contented,  and  manifested  far  less  irritaoility 
than  he  had  previously  done ;  and  this  favorable  change,  together 
with  the  cheering  influence  of  Gertrude's  society,  had  for  a  time  pro- 
duced a  proportionately  beneficial  effect  upon  Mrs.  Sullivan  ;  but, 
within  the  last  few  days,  her  increased  debility,  and  one  or  two 
sudden  attacks  of  faintness,  had  awakened  all,  and  more  than  all, 
of  Gertrude's  former  fears.  She  had  left  home  with  the  determin 
ation,  as  soon  as  she  should  be  released  from  her  school  duties,  to 
seek  Dr.  Jeremy  and  request  his  attendance  ;  and  it  was  in  order 
to  secure  leisure  for  that  purpose  that  she  had  solicited  Mr.  MM- 
ler's  superintending  care  for  Mr.  Cooper. 

Of  Gertrude's  school-duties  we  shall  say  nothing,  save  that 
she  was  found  by  Mr.  W.  fully  competent  to  the  performance 
of  them,  and  that  she  met  with  those  trials  and  discouragements 
only  to  which  all  teachers  are  more  or  less  subjected,  from  the 
idleness,  obstinacy,  or  stupidity  of  their  pupils.  On  this  day, 
however,  she  was,  from  various  causes,  detained  to  a  later  hour 
than  usual,  and  the  clock  struck  two  at  the  very  moment 
that  she  was  ringing  Dr.  Jeremy's  door-bell.  The  girl  who 
opened  the  door  knew  Gertrude  by  sight,  having  often  seen  her  at 
her  master's  house  ;  and,  telling  her  that,  though  the  doctor  was 
just  going  to  dinner,  she  thought  he  would  see  her,  asked  her  into 
the  office,  where  he  stood,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  eating  an 
anple,  as  it  was  his  invariable  custom  to  do  before  dinner.  He 
laid  it  down,  however,  and  advanced  to  meet  Gertrude,  holding  out 
both  his  hands.  "  Gertrude  Flint,  I  declare  !  "  exclaimed  he 
"  Why,  I 'm  glad  to  see  you,  my  girl.  Why  have  n't  you  been 
here  before,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

Gertrude  explained  that  she  w^s  living  with  friends,  one 
whom  was  very  old,  the  other  an  mvalid ;  and  that  so  much  of  her 
time  was  occupied  in  school  chat  she  had  no  opportimity  for 
visiting. 

"  Poor  excuse !  "  said  the  doctor ;  "  poor  excuse  !  But,  now 
we 've  got  you  here,  we  shan't  let  you  go  very  soon ;  "  and,  going 
to  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  he  called,  in  the  loudest  possible  torn 

m 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


195 


df  voice,  "Mrs.  Jerry!  Mrs.  Jerry!  come!  —  come  down  to  din- 
ner as  quick  as  you  can,  and  put  on  your  best  cap,  —  we 've  got 
company.  — Poor  sou]'*'  added  he,  in  a  l)wer  tone,  addressing 
himself  to  Gertrude,  and  smiling  good-naturedly,  "  she  can't  hurry, 
can  she,  Gerty  ?  —  she's  fat." 

Gertrude  now  protested  against  staying  to  dinner,  declaring  sho 
must  hasten  home,  and  announcing  Mrs.  Sullivan's  illness  and  the 
object  of  her  visit. 

"  An  hour  can't  make  much  difference  in  such  a  case,"  insisted 
the  doctor.  "  You  must  stay  and  dine  with  me,  and  then  I  '11  go 
wherever  you  wish,  and  take  you  with  me  in  the  buggy." 

Gertrude  hesitated ;  the  sky  had  clouded  over,  and  a  few  flakes 
of  snow  were  falling ;  she  should  have  an  uncomfortable  walk 
and,  moreover,  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  accompany  the  doctor, 
as  the  street  in  which  she  lived  was  principally  composed  of  new 
houses,  not  yet  numbered,  and  he  might,  if  he  were  alone,  have 
some  difficulty  in  finding  the  right  tenement. 

At  this  stage  of  her  reflections,  Mrs.  Jeremy  entered.  Fat  she 
certainly  was,  very  uncommonly  fat,  and  flushed  too  with  her 
unwonted  haste,  and  the  excitement  of  anticipating  the  company 
of  a  stranger.  She  kissed  Gertrude  in  the  kindest  manner,  and 
then,  looking  round  and  seeing  that  there  was  no  one  else  present 
exclaimed,  glancing  reproachfully  at  the  doctor, 

"  Why,  Dr.  Jerry  !  —  an't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  I  nevei 
will  believe  you  again ;  you  made  me  think  there  was  some  great 
stranger  here." 

"  And,  pray,  Mrs.  Jerry,  who a  greater  stranger  in  this  house 
than  Gerty  Flint  ?  " 

"  Sure  enough  !  "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy.  "  Gertrude  is  a  stranger, 
and  I  *ve  got  a  scolding  in  store  for  her  on  that  very  account ;  but, 
you  know.  Dr.  Jerry,  I  shouldn't  have  put  on  my  lilac-and-pink 
for  Gertrude  to  see ;  she  likes  me  just  as  well  in  my  old  yellow,  if 
she  did  tell  me,  when  I  bought  it,  the  saucy  girl,  that  I 'd  s;le3te(J 
the  uglie.^  t  cap  in  Boston.    Do  you  remember  that,  Gerty  ?  " 

Gerty  laughed  heartily  at  the  recollection  of  a  very  amusing 
scene  that  took  place  at  the  milliner's  when  she  weic  shopping 
with  Mrs.  Jeremy.    «  But,  come,  Gerty,"  continued  that  lady 


196  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

'  dinner 's  1 3ady  ;  take  oif  jour  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  come  mtc 
the  dining-room ;  the  doctor  lias  got  a  great  deal  to  say.,  and  has 
been  wanthig  dreadfully  to  see  you." 

Thv>y  had  been  sitting  some  minutes  without  a  word's  ha\mg 
been  spoken,  beyond  the  usual  civilities  of  the  table,  when  the  doc^ 
lor,  .suddenly  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  commenced  laugh- 
ing,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  Gertrude 
looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  Mrs.  Jeremy  said,  "  There  Geie 
trude  '  —  for  one  whole  we-^k  he  had  just  such  a  laughing-fit,  tw(? 
or  three  times  a  day.  I  was  as  much  astonished  at  first  as  you 
are;  and,  I  confess,  I  don't  quite  understand  now  what  could 
have  happened  between  him  and  Mr.  Graham  that  was  so  very 
funny." 

"  Come,  wife,"  said  the  doctor,  checking  himself^ in  his  mern 
ment ;  "  don't  you  forestall  my  communication.  I  want  to  tell 
the  story  myself.  I  don't  suppose,"  continued  he,  turning  towardn 
Gertrude,  -  you  Ve  lived  five  years  at  Mr.  Graham's,  without 
finding  out  what  a  cantankerous,  opinionative,  obstinate  old  hulk 
he  is?" 

"  Doctor  !  "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  reprovingly,  and  shaking  her 
bead  at  him. 

"  I  don't  care  for  winking  or  head-shaking,  wife  ;  I  spe&  r-  my 
mind,  and  that 's  the  conclusion  I 've  come  to  with  regard  U  Mr. 
Graham ;  and  Gertrude,  here,  has  done  the  same,  I  have  n't  a  par- 
ticle of  doubt,  only  she 's  a  good  girl,  and  won't  say  so." 

I  never  saw  anything  that  looked  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy, 
«  and  I 've  seen  as  much  of  him  as  most  folks.  I  meet  him  in 
the  street  almost  every  day,  and  he  looks  as  smiling  as  a  basket 
of  chips,  and  raakes  a  beautiful  bow." 

I  daresay,"  said  the  doctor ;  Gertrude  and  I  know  what 
gentlemanly  manners  he  has  when  one  does  not  walk  in  the  very 
teeth  of  his  opinions,  —  eh,  Gertrude  ?  —  but  when  one  does  — ' 
"  In  talking  politics,  for  instance,"  suggested  Mrs.  Jeremy 
"  It 's  your  diffevences  with  hun  on  politics  that  have  set  you 
against  hir^  so." 

"Nu  it  is  n't,"  replied  the  doctor.    "  A  man  may  get  angry 
talking  poli^jcs,  and  be  &  pretty  good-natured  man  too,  in  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


19? 


maia  J  get  angry  myself  on  politics,  but  that  is  a't  the  sc  rt  of 
thing  I  have  refer  jnce  to  at  all.  It 's  Graham 's  wanting  to  la;p 
down  the  law  to  everybody  that  comes  within  ten  niles  of  \Am 
that  I  can't  endure  ;  his  dictatorial  way  of  acting,  as  if  he  were 
the  Grand  Mogul  of  Cochin  China.  I.  thought  he 'd  improved  of 
late  years ;  he  had  a  serious  lesson  enough  in  that  sad  affair  of  pool 
Philip  Amory's ;  but,  fact,  I  believe  he 's  been  trying  the  old 
game  again.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  "  shouted  the  good  doctor,  leaiilrig 
forward,  and  giving  Gertrude  a  light  tap  on  the  shoulder,  — 
"  was  n't  I  glad  when  I  found  he 'd  met  at  last  with  a  reasonable 
opposition  ?  —  and  that,  too,  where  he  least  expected  it ! " 

Gertrude  looked  her  astonishment  at  his  evident  knowledge  of 
Tie  misund.<^rstanding  between  herself  and  Mr.  Graham;  and  iu 
answer  to  that  look  he  continued,  *'  You  wonder  where  I  picked 
up  my  information,  and  I  '11  tell  you.  It  was  partly  from  Graham 
himself ;  and  what  diverts  me  is  to  think  how  hard  the  old  chap 
tried  to  hide  his  defeat,  and  persuade  me  that  he 'd  had  his  own 
way  after  all,  when  I  saw  through  him,  and  knew  as  well  as  he 
did  that  he 'd  found  his  match  in  you." 

"  Dr.  Jeremy,"  interposed  Gertrude,  "  I  hope  you  don  t 
think  —  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  donH  think  you  a  professed  jnigilist ;  but  I 
consider  you  a  girl  of  sense  —  one  who  knows  what 's  right  —  and 
will  do  what 's  right,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Graham,  or  anybody  else ; 
and  when  you  hear  my  story  you  will  know  the  grounds  on  which 
I  formed  my  opinion  with  regard  to  the  course  things  had  taken, 
find  the  reasons  I  have  for  understanding  the  state  of  the  case 
rather  better  than  Graham  meant  I  should.  One  day,  —  perhaps  it 
was  about  two  months  ago  —  you  may  remember  the  exact  time 
bettor  than  I  do,  —  I  was  summoned  to  go  and  see  one  of  Mr. 
W.'g  children,  who  had  an  attack  of  croup.  Mr.  W.  was  talking 
with  me,  when  he  was  called  away  to  see  a  visitor ;  and,  on  hi.^ 
return,  he  mentioned  that  he  had  just  secured  your  services  in  hii* 
school.  I  was  not  surprised,  for  I  knew  Emily  intended  you  for 
a  toachei',  and  I  was  thankful  you  had  got  so  good  a  situation,  1 
had  hardly  left  Mr.  W.'s  door,  however,  before  1  encountered  Mr 
Graham,  and  he  entertained  me,  as  W0  went  down  the  street,  with 


108 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


HD  account  of  his  plans  for  the  winter.  *  But  Gertrude  Flint  .is 
not  going  w'lh  you,'  said  I. —  '  Gertrude !  '  said  he  ;  ^  certainly  sho 
is.' —  *Are  )'ou  sure  of  that  ?  I  asked.  '  Have  you  invited  her  ?  ' — 
Invited  her  !  —  No,'  was  his  answer  ;  *  but,  of  course,  I  know  she 
will  go,  and  be  glad  enough  of  the  opportunity;  it  isn't  OTery 
girl  in  her  situation  that  is  so  fortunate.'  Now,  Gerty,  I  felt  a 
little  provoked  at  his  way  of  speaking,  and  I  answered,  in  nearly 
as  confident  a  tone  as  his  own,  '  I  doubt,  myself,  whether  she  wiD 
acb3pt  the  invitation.'  Upon  that,  Mr.  Dignity  straightened  up, 
and  such  a  speech  as  he  made  !  I  never  can  recall  it  without 
being  amused,  especially  when  I  think  of  the  come-down  that  fol- 
lowed so  soon  after.  I  can't  repeat  it ;  but,  goodness,  Gertrude  I 
one  would  have  thought,  to  hear  him,  that  it  was  not  only  impos- 
sible you  should  oppose  his  wishes,  but  actual  treason  in  me  to 
suggest  such  a  thing.  Of  course,  I  knew  better  than  to  tell  what 
I  had  just  heard  from  Mr.  W.,  but  I  never  felt  a  greater  cm-iosity 
about  anything  than  I  did  to  know  how  the  matter  would  end. 
Two  or  three  times  I  planned  to  drive  out  with  my  wife,  see  Emily, 
and  hear  the  result ;  but  a  doctor  never  can  call  a  day  his  own, 
and  I  got  prevented.  At  last,  one  Sunday,  I  heard  Mrs.  Prime's 
voice  in  the  kitchen  (her  niece  lives  here),  and  down  I  went  to 
make  my  inquiries.  That  woman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  Gertrude, 
and  pretty  sharp  where  you  are  concerned.  She  told  me  the  truth, 
t  rather  think;  though  not,  perhaps,  all  the  particulars.  It  was 
rot  more  than  a  day  or  two  after  that  before  I  saw  Graham 
^  Ah ! '  said  I ;  *  when  do  you  start? '  — '  To-morrow,'  replied  he. — 
'  Keally,'  I  exclaimed  '  then  J  3han't  see  your  ladies  again.  Will 
you  take  a  little  package  from  me  to  Gertrude?' — 'I  know  nothing 
about  Gertrude ! '  said  he,  stiffly.  —  'What! '  rejoined  I,  affecting  the 
greatest  surprise, '  has  Gertrude  left  you  ^  '  —  *  She  has,'  answered 
he.  —  '  And  dared,'  continued  I,  quoting  his  own  words,  '  to  treat 
you  with  such  disrespect,  —  to  trifle  so  with  your  dignity  ? '  —  'Dr. 
J eremy  !  '  exclaimed  he,  '  I  don't  wish  to  hear  that  young  person 
mentioned  ;  she  has  behaved  as  ungratefully  as  she  has  unwisely. 
—  '  Why,  about  the  gratitude,  Graham,'  said  I,  '  I  believe  you  said 
Jt  would  only  be  an  j^^dditional  favor  on  your  part  if  you  took  her 
writb  jou,  and  I  can't  Bay  but  what  I  think  it  is  wisdom  ir  her  tc 


THE  LAMrLIGHTEK. 


199 


make  ksrself  independent  at  home.  But  I  reall  /  am  sorr}  for  jou 
and  Emilj  ;  you  will  miss  her  so  much.'  — '  We  can  dispense  with 
your  sympath}^  sir,'  answered  he,  *  for  that  which  is  no  loss.' - 
'  Ah  !  really  !  '  I  replied  ;  *  now,  I  was  thinking  Gertrude's  society 
would  be  quite  a  loss.' —  *  Mrs,  Ellis  goes  with  us,'  said  he,  with  a 
marked  emphasis,  that  seemed  to  say  she  was  a  person  whose  com- 
pany compensated  for  all  deficiencies.  — -  Ah  !  '  said  I,  *  charming 
woman,  Mrs.  Ellis  ! '  Graham  looked  annoyed,  for  he  is  aware 
^hat  Mrs.  Ellis  is  my  antipathy. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  have  known  better.  Dr.  Jerry,"  said 
his  kind-hearted  wife,  "  than  to  have  attacked  a  man  so  on  his 
weak  point ;  it  was  only  exciting  his  temper  for  nothing." 

"  I  was  taking  up  the  cudgels  for  Gertrude,  wife." 

"  And  I  don't  believe  Gertrude  wants  you  to  take  up  the  cudg- 
els for  her.  I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  that  she  has  the  kindest 
of  feelings  towards  Mr.  Graham,  this  blessed  minute." 

"I  have,  indeed,  Mrs.  Jeremy,"  said  Gertrude;  "he  has  beea 
a  most  generous  and  indulgent  friend  to  me." 

"  Except  when  you  wanted  to  have  your  own  way,"  suggested 
the  doctor. 

"  Which  1  seldom  did,  when  it  was  in  opposition  to  his 
wishes." 

"  And  what  if  it  were  ?  " 

"  I  always  considered  it  my  duty  to  submit  to  him,  until,  at  last 
a  higher  duty  compelled  me  to  do  otherwise." 

"  And  then,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  J eremy,  "  I  daresay  it  pained 
you  to  displease  him ;  and  that  is  a  right  woman's  feeling,  and 
one  that  Dr.  Jerry,  in  his  own  heart,  can't  but  approve  of,  though 
one  would  think,  to  hear  him  talk,  that  he  considered  it  pretty  in  a 
young  girl  to  take  satisfaction  in  browbeating  an  old  gentleman. 
But,  don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  it ;  he  has  had  his  say, 
and  now  it 's  my  turn.  I  want  to  hear  how  you  are  situated, 
Gerty,  where  you  live,  and  how  you  like  teaching." 

Gertrude  answered  all  these  questions ;  and  the  doctor,  who  had 
heard  Mrs.  Sullivan  spoken,  of  as  a  friend  of  True's  and  Gerty's, 
?it  the  time  when  he  attended  the  former,  made  many  inquiries 
eoncerning  the  state  of  her  health.    It  was  by  >his  time  begin 


200 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ning  to  snow  fast,  and  Gertrude's  anxiety  to  return  home  u 
good  season  being  very  manifest  to  her  kind  host  and  hostess 
they  urged  no  further  delay,  and,  after  she  had  given  many  a 
promise  to  repeat  her  visit  on  the  earliest  opportunity,  she  drove 
away  with  tne  dootsH?. 


CHAP/Ett  XXi¥. 


No  simplest  ^uty  is  forgot  ; 
Life  ^a'li  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  dotii  not  in  her  sunshine  sliai©. 

Lowell. 

"  .  HATE  beei  thinking,"  said  Gertrude,  as  she  drew  niar  boii  ^ 
*  how  we  shall  nanage,  doctor,  so  as  not  to  alarm  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  What 's  going  to  alarm  her  ? asked  the  doctor. 

"  You,  if  she  knows  at  once  that  you  are  a  physician.  I  tnmk 
I  had  better  introduce  you  as  a  friend,  who  brought  mo  home  iu 
the  storm." 

"  0  !  so  we  are  going  to  act  a  little  farce,  are  we?  Stage- 
manager,  Gertrude  Flint  —  unknown  stranger.  Dr.  Jeremy.  I 'm 
ready.    What  shall  I  say  first  ?  ' ' 

"  I  leave  that  to  a  wiser  head  than  mine,  doctor,  and  trust 
entirely  to  your  own  discretion  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  her 
symptoms,  and  only  gradually  disclose  to  her  that  you  are  a 
physician." 

Ah,  yes!  pretend,  at  first,  to  be  only  a  private  individual  of 
a  very  inquiring  mind.    I  think  I  can  manage  it." 

They  went  in.  As  they  opened  the  door,  Mrs.  Sullivan  rose 
from  her  chair  with  a  troubled  countenance,  and  hardlv  waited 
for  the  introduction  to  Gertrude's  friend  before  she  turned  to  her 
and  asked,  with  some  anxiety,  if  Mr.  Cooper  were  not  with  them. 
No,  indeed,"  replied  Gertrude.    "  Has  n't  he  come  home  ?  " 

Upon  Mrs.  Sullivan's  saying  that  she  had  not  seen  him  sin'je 
morning,  Gertrude  informed  her,  with  a  composure  she  was  far 
from  feeling,  that  Mr.  Miller  had  undertaken  the  care  of  him; 
ftnd  could,  undoubtedly,  account  for  his  absence.  Sh^  "  lould  seek 
kim  at  once. 


202 


THE  LAMPLl  SHTO. 


''O  I 'm  so  sorry  '  said  Mrs.  Sul/iTa^,  '  that  you  stioulil  hiiye 
to  go  out  again  in  such  a  storm!  but  I  feal  very- anxious  abcut 
grandpa  —  don't  you,  Gerty  ?  " 

"  Not  very ;  I  think  he  is  safe  in  the  church.  But  I  'il  go  ib? 
mm  at  once  :  yon  know,  auntie,  I  never  mind  the  weather." 

"  Then  take  my  great  shawl,  dear."  And  Mrs.  Sullivan  went 
to  the  entry -closet  for  her  shawl,  giving  Gertrude  an  opportunity 
to  beg  of  Dr.  Jeremy  that  he  would  await  her  return ;  for  she 
knew  that  any  unusual  agitation  of  mind  would  often  occasion  an 
attack  of  faintness  in  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  was  afraid  to  have  her 
left  alone,  to  dwell  with  anxiety  and  alarm  upon  Mr.  Cooper's 
prolonged  absence. 

It  was  a  very  disagreeable  afternoon,  and  already  growing 
dark.  Gertrude  hastened  along  the  wet  side-walks,  exposed  to 
the  blinding  storm  (for  the  wind  would  not  permit  her  to  carry 
an  umbrella),  and,  after  passing  through  several  streets,  gained 
the  church.  She  went  into  the  building,  now  nearly  deserted  by 
the  workmen,  saw,  at  once,  that  Mr.  Cooper  was  not  there,  and 
was  beginning  to  fear  that  she  should  gain  no  information  con- 
cerning him,  when  she  met  Mr.  Miller  coming  from  the  gallery. 
He  looked  surprised  at  seeing  her,  and  asked  if  Mr.  Cooper  had 
not  returned  home.  She  answered  in  the  negative,  and  he  then 
informed  her  that  his  utmost  efforts  were  insufficient  to  persuade 
the  old  man  to  go  home  at  dinner-time,  and  that  he  had  there 
fore  taken  him  to  his  own  house ;  he  had  supposed,  however,  that 
long  before  this  hour  he  would  have  been  induced  to  allow  one 
of  the  children  to  accompany  him  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's. 

As  it  now  seemed  probable  that  he  was  still  at  Mr.  Miller's 
Gertrude  took  the  direction  (for  the  family  had  moved  within  a 
year,  and  she  did  no*^^  know  where  to  seek  them),  and,  dec'\ning 
the  company  of  the  friendly  mason,  whom  she  was  unwilling  to 
take  from  his  work,  proceeded  thither  at  once.  After  another 
uncomfortabie  walk,  and  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  right  stree* 
und  house,  she  reached  her  destination.  She  knocked  at  the  out- 
nide  door ;  but  there  was  no  response,  and,  after  wa'iting  a  mo- 
'2«ant.,  she  opened  it  and  went  in.    Through  anothei  door  at  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


fight^  there  was  ih^i  sound  of  children's  voices,  and  so  much  noise 
that  she  believed  it  impossible  to  make  herself  heard,  and,  there 
fore,  without  further  ceremr-ny,  entered  the  room.  A  band  of 
startled  children  disper^  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger,  and 
ensconc^d  themselves  in  corners ;  and  Mrs.  Miller,  in  dismay  at 
the  untidy  appearance  of  her  kitchen,  hastily  pushed  back  a 
clothes-horse  against  the  wall,  thereby  disclosing  to  view  th^  very 
person  Gertrude  had  come  to  seek,  who,  in  his  usual  desponding 
attitude,  sat  cowering  over  the  fire.  But,  before  she  could 
advance  to  speak  to  him,  her  whole  attention  was  arrested  by 
another  and  most  unexpected  sight.  Placed  against  the  side  of 
the  room,  directly  opposite  the  door,  was  a  narrow  bed,  in  which 
Bome  person  seemed  to  be  sleeping.  Hardly,  however,  had  Ger 
trude  presented  herself  in  the  doorway,  before  the  figure  suddenly 
raised  itself,  gazed  fixedly  at  her,  lifted  a  hand  as  if  to  ward  off 
tier  approach,  and  utt3rea  %  piercing  shriek. 

The  voice  and  countenance  were  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  Ger- 
irude,  pale  and  trembling,  felt  something  like  a  revival  of  her 
eld  dread,  as  she  beheld  the  well-known  features  of  Nan  Grant. 

"  Go  away  !  go  away  !  "  cried  Nan,  as  Gertrude,  after  a  mo- 
PTient's  hesitation,  advanced  into  the  room.  Again  Gertrude 
paused,  for  the  wildness  of  Nan's  eyes  and  the  excitement  of  her 
countenance  were  such  that  she  feared  to  excite  her  further. 

Mrs.  Miller  now  came  forward,  and  interfered.  "  Why,  Aunt 
Nancy  !  "  said  she,  what  is  the  matter  ?  This  is  Miss  Flint,  one 
of  the  best  young  ladies  in  the  land." 

No,  't  an't !  "  said  Nan,  fiercely.    "  I  know  better !  " 

Mrs.  Miller  now  drew  Gertrude  aside,  into  the  shadow  ol 
tbo  clothes-horse,  and  conversed  with  her  in  an  under  tone, 
while  Nan,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  and  peering  after  them  into  the 
dim  corner  to  which  they  had  retreated,  maintained  a  watchful, 
listening  attitude.  Gertrude  was  informed  that  Mrs.  Miller  was 
a  niece  of  Ben  Grant's,  but  had  seen  nothing  of  him  or  his  wife 
for  years,  until,  a  few  days  previous.  Nan  had  come  there  in  a 
state  of  the  greatest  destitution,  and  threatened  with  the  fever 
under  which  she  was  now  laboring.  "  I  could  not  refuse  her  a 
ehelt^r,"  laid  Mrs.  Miller ;  *^  but,  as  you  see,  I  have  no  accommo 


204 


THE  LAMPUGHTEK. 


dation  for  her,  and  it 's  not  only  bad  for  me  to  have  hei-  dck 
right  here  in  the  kitchen,  but,  what  with  the  noise  the  children 
and  all  the  other  discomforts,  I 'm  afraid  the  poor  old  thing  will 
die." 

Have  you  a  room  that  you  could  spare  above  stairg  ? '  asked 
Gertrude. 

"  \Yhy,  there 's  our  Jane,"  answered  Mrs.  Miller  "she  's  a 
good-hcarted  girl  as  ever  lived ;  she  said,  right  off,  she 'd  give  u} 
her  room  to  poor  Aunt  Nancy,  and  she 'd  sleep  in  with  the  other 
children  ;  I  didn't  feel,  though,  as  if  we  could  afford  to  keep  anotner 
fire  a-going,  and  so  I  thought  we 'd  put  up  a  bed  here  for  a  da]/ 
or  two,  and  just  see  how  she  got  along.  But  she 's  looked  pretty 
bad  to-day,  and  now  I 'm  thinking,  from  her  actions,  that  she  'a 
considerable  out  of  her  head." 

"  She  ought  to  be  kept  quiet,"  said  Gertrude ;  and,  if  you  will 
have  a  fire  in  Jane's  room  at  my  expense,  and  do  what  you  can 
to  make  her  comfortable,  I  '11  try  and  &  >nd  a  physician  here  to 
see  her."  Mrs.  Miller  was  beginning  to  express  the  warmest 
gratitude,  but  Gertrude  interrupted  her  with  saying,  "  Don't  thank 
me,  Mrs.  Miller ;  NaUv^y  is  not  a  stranger  to  me ;  I  have  known 
her  before,  and,  perhaps,  feel  more  interest  in  her  than  you  do 
yourself." 

Mrs.  Miller  looked  surprised ;  but  Gertrude,  whose  time  waa 
limited,  could  not  stop  to  enter  into  a  further  explanation. 
Anxious,  however,  if  possible,  to  speak  to  Nan,  and  assure  her  of 
her  friendly  intentions,  she  went  boldly  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed 
in  spite  of  the  wild  and  glaring  eyes  which  were  fixed  steadily 
upon  her. 

"  Nan,"  said  she,  "  do  you  know  me  ? 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  "  replied  Nan,  in  a  half-whisper,  speaking  quickly 
and  catching  her  breath ;  "  what  have  you  come  for  ?  " 
"  To  do  you  good,  I  hope." 

But  Nan  still  looked  incredulous,  and  in  the  same  undertone, 
and  with  the  same  nervous  accent,  inquired,  Have  you  soei7 
Gcity  ?    Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  well,"  answered  Gertrude,  astonished,  however,  at  th' 
yiestion  ;  for  she  had  supposed  herself  recognized. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTBK. 


*  Wliat  did  sh^  say  about  me  ?  " 
She  says  that  she  forgives  and  pities  you,  and  is  in  hopes  to 
do  something  to  help  you  and  make  you  well." 

Did  she  ?  "  said  the  sick  woman ;  "  then  you  won't  kill  me  ? 

"  Kill  you  ?  — "No,  indeed.  We  are  in  hopes  to  make  you  com- 
fortable,  and  cure  you." 

Mrs.  Miller,  who  had  been  preparing  a  cup  of  tea,  now  drew 
near,  with  it  in  her  hand.  Gertrude  took  it  and  offered  it  to 
Nan,  who  drank  eagerly  of  it,  staring  at  her,  h^^wever,  in 
the  mean  time,  over  the  edge  of  the  cup.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished, she  threw  herself  heavily  upon  the  pillow,  and  began  mut- 
tering some  indistinct  sentences,  the  only  distinguishable  word 
being  the  name  of  her  son  Stephen.  Finding  the  current  of  her 
thoughts  thus  apparently  diverted,  Gertrude,  now  feeling  in 
haste  to  return  and  relievo  Br.  J eremy,  who  had  so  kindly  agreed 
to  stay  with  Mrs.  Sullivan,  moved  a  little  from  the  bed-side,  say- 
ing, as  she  did  so,  "  Good-bj,  I  will  come  and  see  you  again." 

"You  won't  hurt  me?^'  exclaimed  Nan,  starting  up  once 
more. 

"  0  no.    I  will  try  to  bring  you  something  you  will  like." 
"  Don't  bring  Gerty  here  with  you  !  I  don't  want  to  see  her." 
"  I  will  come  alone,"  replied  Gertrude. 

Nan  now  laid  down,  and  did  not  speak  again  while  Gertrude 
remained  iii  (he  house,  though  she  watched  her  steadily  until  she 
was  outside  ehe  door.  Mr.  Cooper  made  no  objection  to  accom 
panying  his  young  guide,  and,  though  the  severity  of  the  storm  was 
such  that  they  did  not  escape  a  thorough  wetting,  they  reached 
homo  in  safety,  in  little  more  than  an  hour  from  the  time  she 
started  on  her  expedition. 

Dr.  J ereixiy,  seated  at  the  side  of  the  grate,  with  his  feet  upon 
the  fender,  had  the  contented  appearance  of  one  whu  is  quite  at 
home ;  he  seemed,  indeed,  unconscious  that  he  was  waiting  for 
Gertrude's  return,  or  anything  else  but  his  own  pleasure.  He 
had  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Sullivan  about  the  people  of  a 
country  town  where  they  had  both  pac-;sed  some  time  in  their 
childhood,  and  the  timid,  retiring  woman  had,  in  the  com\se  of 
conversation,  come  to  feel  so  much  at  her  ease  in  the  sociity  of 


206 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


the  social  and  Gntertaining  physician,  that,  although  he  had,  iii 
Ms  unguarded  discourse,  accidentally  disclosed  his  profession 
she  allowed  him  ^o  question  her  upon  the  state  of  her  htalth,  with 
out  any  of  the  a_arm  she  had  nervously  fancied  she  should  feel  at 
ths  very  sight  of  a  doctor.  By  the  time  Gertrude  returned,  he 
had  made  himself  well  acquainted  with  the  case,  and  was  prepared 
on  Mrs.  Sullivan's  leaving  the  room  to  provide  dry  clothes  for  her 
father,  to  report  to  Gertrude  his  opinion. 

"Gertrude,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  shut,  "that^s  a 
very  sick  woman." 

Do  you  think  so.  Dr.  Jeremy  ?  "  said  Gertrude,  much  alarmed, 
and  sinking  into  the  nearesu  ^^hair. 

"  I  do,"  replied  he,  thoughtfully.  "  I  wish  to  mercy  I  had  seen 
her  six  months  ago  !  " 

"  V/hy  doctor  !    Do  you  date  her  illness  so  far  back  as  that  ? 

"Yes,  and  much  further.  She  has  borne  up  under  the  gradual 
progress  of  a  disease  which  is  now,  I  fear, 'beyond  the  aid  of  med- 
ical treatment." 

"  Dr.  Jeremy,"  said  Gertrude,  in  tones  of  great  distress,  "  you 
do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  amitie  is  going  to  die,  and  leave  me 
and  her  poor  old  father,  and  without  ever  seeing  Willie  again, 
too !    0,  I  had  hoped  it  was  not  nearly  so  bad  as  that !  " 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  Gertrude,"  said  the  doctor,  kindly.  "  I 
did  not  mean  to  frighten  you  ;  —  she  may  live  some  time,  yet.  I 
can  judge  better  of  her  case  in  a  day  or  two.  But  it  is  absolutely 
unsafe  for  you  to  be  here  alone  with  these  two  friends  of  yours,  — 
to  say  nothing  of  its  overtasking  your  strength.  Has  not  Mrs 
Sullivan  the  means  to  keep  a  nurse,  or  even  a  domestic  ?  She  tells 
me  she  has  no  one." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Serty;  "her  son  supplies  her  wanla 
most  generously.  I  know  that  she  never  draws  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  am.ount  he  is  anxious  she  should  expend." 

"  Then  you  must  speak  to  her  aoout  getting  some  one  to  assist 
ycu  at  once  ;  for,  if  you  do  not,  I  shall." 

"I  intend  to,"  said  Gertrude.  "I  have  seen  the  necessity  fof 
Bome  time  past ;  but  she  has  such  a  dread  of  st  ^angers  that  I  hated 
to  propose  it." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


207 


*  Nonsccse,"  said  the  doctor;  "that's  only  imaginatioi  in  her, 
phf)  would  soon  get  used  to  being  waited  upon." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  now  returned,  and  Gertrude,  giving  an  account 
of  her  unexpectbl  rencounter  with  Nan  Grant,  begged  Dr.  Jeremy, 
who  knew  the  particulars  of  her  own  early  life,  and  had  frequently 
acard  of  Nan,  to  go  the  next  day  and  see  her.  "  It  will  be  a  visit 
^i' ehari'-y,"  said  she,  "  for  she  is  probably  penniless,  and,  though 
et£ybig  with  your  old  patients  the  Millers,  she  is  but  distantly 
d'onriQciod,  and  has  no  claim  upon  them.  That  never  makes  any 
^{ifibreac^  with  you,  however,  I  know  very  well." 

"  Not  a  Ixt,  not  a  bit,"  answered  the  doctor.  "  I  '11  go  and  see 
iier  to-mgkt,  ii'  the  case  require  it,  and  to-mcrrow  I  shall  look  in 
uo  report  h^y^  she  is,  and  hear  the  rest  of  what  Mrs.  Sullivan 
was  telling  mo  her  wakeful  nights.    But,  Gertrude,  do  you 

go,  child,  and  cha:ige  your  wet  shoes  and  stockings.  I  shall  have 
you  on  my  hands,  lioxt." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  delighted  with  Dr.  J eremy,  and  when  he  wa^j 
gone  eagerly  sounded  his  praise.  "  So  different,"  said  she,  "  from 
common  doctors  (a  poition  of  humanity  for  which  she  seemed  to 
have  an  unaccountable  aversion) ;  so  sociable  and  friendly !  Why 
I  felt,  Gertrude,  as  if  I  could  talk  to  him  about  my  sickness  aa 
freely  as  I  could  to  you." 

Gei  inide  readily  joined  in  the  praises  bestowed  upon  her  much- 
valued  St'ksd  and  it  was  tea-time  before  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  weary 
of  the  suDifcfjt.  After  the  evening  meal  was  over,  and  Mr.  Cooper., 
much  weariea  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  had  been  persuaded  to 
retire  to  rest,  \Yhiie  Mrs.  Sullivan,  comfortably  reclining  on  the 
sofa,  was  enjoy irig  what  she  always  termed  her  happiest  hour, 
GartiudB  broached  tne  subject  recommended  by  Dr.  Jeremy. 
Contj-ary  to  her  expectations,  Mrs.  Sullivan  no  longer  objected  to 
fciie  proposal  of  introducing  a  domestic  into  the  family.  She  was 
convinced  of  her  own  incompetency  to  perform  any  active  labor, 
and  was  equally  opposed  to  the  exertion  on  Gertrude's  part  which 
had,  during  the  last  week,  been  requisite.  Gertrude  suggested 
Jan3  Miller  as  a  girl  remarkably  well  suited  to  their  waai^,  and 
it  was  agreec^  that  she  should  be  applied  for  on  the  foY^i^ia^ 
morDing. 


208 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


One  more  glance  at  Gertrude,  and  we  shall  have  followed  -  her 
to  the  conclusion  of  the  day.  She  is  alone.  It  is  ten  o'clock,  and 
the  house  is  still.  Mr.  Cooper  is  sound  asleep.  Gertrude  has 
just  listened  at  his  door,  and  heard  his  loud  breathing.  Mrs.  Sul- 
livan, under  the  influence  of  a  soothing  draught  recommended  by 
Dr.  Jeremy,  has  fallen  into  an  unusually  quiet  slumber.  The 
little  Calcutta  birds,  ten  in  number,  that  occupy  a  large  cage  in 
the  window,  are  nestled,  side  by  side,  on  their  slender  perch,  in  a 
3lose,  unbroken  row,  and  Gertrude  has  thrown  a  warm  covering 
over  them,  that  they  m.ay  not  suffer  from  the  cold  night-air.  She 
has  locked  the  doors,  made  all  things  safe,  fast  and  comfortable, 
and  now  sits  down  to  read,  to  meditate,  and  pray.  Her  trials 
and  cares  are  multiplying.  A  great  grief  stares  her  in  the  face, 
and  a  great  responsibility  ;  but  she  shrinks  not  from  either.  No  ! 
on  the  contrary,  she  thanks  God  that  she  is  here ;  that  she  had  the 
resolution  to  forsake  pleasure  and  ease,  and,  in  spite  of  her  own 
weakness  and  man's  wrath,  to  place  herself  in  the  front  of  life's 
battle,  and  bravely  wait  its  issues.  She  thanks  God  that  she 
knows  where  to  look  for  help ;  that  the  bitter  sorrows  of  her  child- 
no  od  and  early  youth  left  her  not  without  a  witness  of  His  lovo 
who  can  turn  darkness  into  light,  and  that  no  weight  can  now 
overshadow  her  whose  gloom  is  not  illumined  by  rays  from  the 
throne  of  God.  But,  though  her  heart  is  brave  and  her  faith  firm 
she  has  a  woman's  tender  nature ;  and,  as  she  sits  alone,  she  weeps 
—  weeps  for  herself,  and  for  him  who,  far  away  in  a  foreign  land, 
is  counting  the  days,  the  months  and  years,  which  shall  restore 
him  to  a  mother  he  is  destined  never  to  see  again.  With  the 
recollection,  however,  that  she  is  to  stand  in  the  place  of  a  child 
to  that  parent,  and  that  hers  is  the  hand  that  must  soothe  the 
pillow  of  the  invalid,  and  minister  to  all  her  wants,  comes  the 
stern  necessity  of  self-control, —  a  necessity  to  which  Gertrude  has 
umg  since  learned  to  submit,  —  and,  rallying  all  her  calmness  and 
ibrtitude,  she  wipes  away  the  blinding  tears,  commends  herself  tc 
Him  who  is  strength  to  the  weak  and  comfort  to  the  sorrowing 
and,  soothed  by  the  communion  of  her  spirit  with  the  Fatlier  of 
spirits,  she  seeks  her  couch,  and,  worn  out  by  the  varied  menta 
and  b^  lily  f itigues  of  her  day's  experience,  follows  the  rest  of  thf 
household  tf.  the  land  cf  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 
Visit  the  soul  in  sleep.  Seellby. 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing  for  Gertrude  tliat  Thanksgi  ring  weeS 
was  approaching,  as  that  was  a  vacation  time  at  Mr.  "W.'s  school, 
.ind  she  would  thus  be  more  at  leisure  to  attend  to  her  multiplied 
eares.  She  considered  herself  favored,  too,  in  obtaining  the  ser- 
vices of  Jane,  who  willingly  consented  to  come  and  help  Miss 
Gertrude.  She  did  not,  she  said,  exactly  like  the  idea  of  living 
oat,  but  could  n't  refuse  a  young  lady  who  had  been  so  good  to 
them  in  times  past.  Gertrude  had  feared  that,  with  Nan  Grant 
sick  in  the  house,  Mrs.  Miller  would  not  be  able  to  give  up  her 
eldest  daughter ;  but  Mary,  a  second  girl,  having  returned  home 
unexpectedly,  one  of  them  could  be  very  conveniently  spared. 
Under  Gertrude's  tuition,  Jane,  who  was  neat  and  capable,  was 
able,  after  a  few  days,  to  relieve  Mrs.  Sullivan  of  nearly  all  her 
household  duties,  and  so  far  provide  for  many  of  her  personal 
wants  as  to  leave  Gertrude  at  liberty  to  pay  frequent  visits  to  the 
sick  room  of  Nan,  whose  fever,  having  reached  its  height,  rendered 
her  claim  for  aid  at  present  the  most  imperative. 

We  need  hardly  say  that,  in  Gertrude's  still  vivid  recollection 
of  her  former  suiFerings  under  the  rule  of  Nan,  there  remained 
nrthing  of  bitterness  or  a  spirit  of  revenge.  If  she  remembered 
the  past,  it  was  only  to  pity  and  forgive  her  persecutor ;  if  she 
meditated  upon  the  course  she  should  hersplf  pursue  towards  hei 
once  hated  tyrant,  it  was  only  to  revolve  in  her  mind  how  she  could 
best  serve  and  comfort  her. 

Therefore,  night  after  night  found  her  watching  by  the  bed-sida 
of  the  sick  woman,  who,  though  still  delirious,  had  «^utirely  lout 


210 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


the  feai  and  dread  she  had  at  first  seemed  to  feel  at  her  presence 
Nan  tal  ked  much  of  little  Gertj,  —  sometimes  in  a  way  that  led 
Gertrude  to  believe  herself  recognized,  but  more  frequently  as  if 
ihe  child  were  supposed  to  be  absent ;  and  it  was  not  until  a  long 
time  after  that  Gertrude  was  led  to  adopt  the  correct  supposition, 
which  was,  that  she  had  been  mistaken  for  her  mother,  whom  she 
much  resembled,  and  whom,  though  tended  in  her  last  sickness  by 
Nan  herself,  the  fevered,  diseased,  and  conscience- stricken  suffcror 
believed  had  come  back  to  claim  her  child  at  her  hands.  It  was 
only  the  continued  assurances  of  good- will  on  Gertrude's  part,  ana 
her  unwearied  efforts  to  soothe  and  comfort  her,  that  finally  led 
Nan  to  the  belief  that  the  injured  mother  had  found  her  child  in 
health  and  safety,  and  was  ignorant  of  the  wrongs  and  unkindness 
she  had  endured. 

One  night  —  it  was  the  last  of  Nan's  life  —  Gertrude,  who  had 
scarcely  left  her  during  the  pi  evious  day,  and  was  still  mamtain- 
ing  her  watch,  heard  her  own  name  mingled  with  those  of  others 
in  a  few  rapid  sentences.  She  approached  the  bed  and  listened 
intently,  for  she  was  always  in  hopes,  during  these  partly  inco- 
herent ravings,  to  gain  some  information  concerning  her  own  early 
life.  Her  name  was  not  repeated,  however,  and  for  some  time 
the  muttering  of  Nan's  voice  was  indistinct.  Then,  suddenly  start- 
ing up  and  addressing  herself  to  some  imaginary  person,  she  shouted 
aloud,  "  Stephie  !  Stephie !  give  me  back  the  watch,  and  tell  me 
what  you  did  with  the  rings  !  —  They  will  ask  —  those  folks  !  —  and 
what  shall  I  tell  them  ?  "  Then,  after  a  pause,  during  which  her 
eyes  were  fixed  steadily  upon  the  wall,  she  said,  in  a  more  feeble 
out  equally  earnest  voice,  "No,  no,  Stephie,  I  never '11  tell,— 
I  Tiever,  never  will !  "  The  moment  the  words  had  left  her  lips, 
she  started,  turned,  saw  Gertrude  standing  by  the  bed-side,  and, 
with  a  frightened  look,  shrieked,  rather  than  asked.  Did  you 
hear?  Did  you  hear?  —  You  did,"  continued  she,  "  an-d  you 'il 
tell  !  0,  if  you  do  !  "  She  was  here  preparing  to  spj'ing  from 
the  bed,  but,  overcome  with  exhaustion,  sunk  back  on  the  pillow 
Summoning  both  Mr.  and  Mrs  Miller,  who,  half  expecting  to  be 
called  up  during  the  night,  had  lain  down  in  the  next  room,  th(i 
agitated  Gertrude  believing  that  her  own  presence  was  too  exci# 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


211 


mg,  left  the  now  dying  woman  to  their  care,  and  sought  in  another 
part  the  house  to  calm  her  disturbed  mind  and  disordered 
nerves  Learning,  about  an  hour  afterwards,  from  Mrs.  Miller, 
that  Nan  had  become  comparatively  calm,  but  was  utterly  pros- 
trated in  strength,  and  seemed  near  her  end,  Gertrude  thought  it 
best  not  to  enter  the  room  again ;  and,  sitting  down  by  the  kitchen- 
stove,  pondered  in  her  mind  the  strange  scene  she  had  witnessed. 
Day  was  just  dawning  when  Mrs.  Miller  came  to  teil  her  that 
Nan  had  breathed  her  last. 

Gerty's  work  of  mercy,  forgiveness  and  Christian  love,  being 
thus  finished,  she  hastened  home  to  recruit  her  wasted  strength, 
and  fortify  herself,  as  she  best  might,  for  the  labor  and  sufi'ering 
yet  in  store  for  her. 

And  it  was  no  ordinary  strength  and  fortitude  that  she  needed 
to  sustain  her  through  a  period  such  as  persons  in  this  world  are 
often  called  upon  to  meet,  when  scenes  of  suffering,  sickness  and 
death,  follow  each  other  in  such  quick  succession,  that,  ere  one 
shock  can  be  recovered  from,  and  composure  of  mind  restored, 
another  blow  comes  to  add  its  force  to  the  already  overwhelming 
torrent.  In  less  than  three  weeks  from  the  time  of  Nan  Grant's 
ieath,  Paul  Cooper  was  smitten  by  the  destroyer's  hand,  and, 
ifter  a  brief  illness,  he,  too,  was  laid  to  his  last  rest ;  and  though 
the  deepest  feelings  of  Gertrude's  heart  were  not  in  either  case 
fully  awakened,  it  was  no  slight  call  upon  the  mental  and  physi- 
cal endurance  of  a  girl  of  eighteen  to  bear  up  under  the  self- 
imposed  duties  occasioned  by  each  event,  and  that,  too,  at  a 
time  when  her  mind  was  racked  by  the  apprehension  of  a  new 
and  far  more  intense  orrief.  Emily's  absence  was  also  a  sore  trial 
tx)  her,  for  she  was  accustomed  to  rely  upon  her  for  advice  and 
counsel,  and,  in  seasons  of  peculiar  distress,  to  learn  patience  and 
submission  from  one  who  was  herself  a  living  exemplification  of 
brAh  virtues.  Only  one  letter  had  been  received  from  the  travel- 
lers, and  that,  written  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  contained  little  that  was 
satisfactory.  It  was  written  from  Plavana,  where  they  were 
boarding  in  a  house  kept  by  an  American  lady,  and  crowded  with 
visitors  from  Boston,  New  Yoric,  and  other  northern  citieSo 

**  It  an't  so  very  pleasant,  after  all,  Gertrude,"  wrote  M*^*, 


212 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


Ellis,  "  and  I  only  wish  we  were  safe  home  again ;  and  not  on  my 
own  account,  either,  so  much  as  Emily's.  She  feels  kind  of  strang€ 
.  here ;  and  no  wonder,  for  it 's  a  dreadful  uncomfortable  sort  of  a 
pla/?e.  The  willows  have  no  glass  about  them,  but  are  grated 
just  like  a  prison  ;  and  there  is  not  a  carpet  in  the  house,  nor  a 
fireplace,  though  sometimes  the  mornings  are  quite  cold.  There  'a 
a  widder  here,  with  a  brother  and  some  nieces.  The  widder  is  a 
flaunting  kind  of  a  woman,  that  I  begin  to  think,  if  you  '11  bo. 
licve  it,  is  either  setting  her  cap  for  Mr.  Graham,  or  means  to 
make  an  old  fool  of  him.  She  is  one  of  your  loud-talking  women, 
that  dress  up  a  good  deal,  and  like  to  take  the  lead ;  and  Mr. 
Graham  is  just  silly  enough  to  follow  after  her  party,  and  go  to 
all  sorts  of  rides  and  excursions ;  —  it 's  so  ridiculous,  —  and  he 
over  sixty-five  years  old  !  Emily  and  I  have  pretty  muc^  done 
going  into  the  parlor,  for  these  gay  folks  don't  take  any  Sv:rt  of 
notice  of  us.  Emily  doesn't  say  a  word,  or  complain  a  bit,  but 
I  know  she  is  not  happy  here,  and  would  be  glad  to  be  back  ia 
Boston  ;  and  so  should  I,  If  it  was  n't  for  that  horrid  steamboat. 
I  liked  to  have  died  with  sea-:dckness,  Gertrude,  coming  out;  and 
1  dread  going  home  so,  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Gertrude  wrote  frequently  to  Emily  ;  but,  as  Miss  Graham  wag 
dependent  upon  Mrs.  Ellis'  eye-sight,  and  the  letters  must,  there- 
fore, be  subject  to  her  scrutiny,  she  could  not  express  her  inner- 
most  thoughts  and  feelings  as  she  was  wont  to  do  in  conversatioc 
with  her  sympathizing  and  indulgent  friend. 

Every  India  mail  brought  news  from  William  Sullivan,  who, 
prosperous  in  business,  and  rendered  happy,  even  in  his  exile,  by 
the  belief  that  the  friends  he  loved  best  were  in  the  enjoyment 
of  the  fruits  of  his  exertions,  wrote  always  in  his  accustomed 
strain  of  cheerfulness. 

One  Sabbath  afternoon,  a  few  weeks  after  Mr.  Cooper's  death, 
found  Gertrude  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  the  numerous 
postmarks  upon  the  outside  of  which  proclaimed  from  whence  :c 
came.  It  nad  that  day  been  received,  and  Mrs.  Sullivan,  as  she 
lay  stretched  upon  her  couch,  had  been  listening  for  the  third 
time  to  the  reading  of  its  contents.  The  bright  hopes  expressed 
by  hor  f;oo,  and  the  gay  tone  in  which  he  wrote,  all  unconscious 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


21S 


tit  ho  yei  W13,  of  the  cloud  of  sorrow  that  was  gathering  for  hini^ 
formed  so  striking  a  contrast  to  her  own  reflections,  that  she  lay 
with  her  eyes  closed,  and  oppressed  with  an  unwonted  degree  of 
sadness  ;  while  Gertrude,  as  she  glanced  at  the  passage  in  which 
Willie  iilated  upon  the  ''joy  of  once  more  clasping  in  his  arms 
the  dear  little  mother  whom  he  so  longed  to  see  again,"  and  then 
turned  her  gaze  upon  the  wasted  form  and  faded  cheek  of  that 
mother,  felt  an  indescribable  chill  at  her  heart.  Dr.  Jeremy's 
first  fears  were  all  confirmed,  and,  her  disease  still  further  aggra- 
vated by  the  anxiety  and  agitation  which  attended  her  father's 
sickness  and  death,  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  rapidly  passing  away. 

"Whether  she  were  herself  aware  that  this  was  the  case,  Ger- 
trude had  not  yet  been  able  to  determine.  She  had  never  spoken 
upon  the  subject,  or  intimated  in  any  manner  a  conviction  of  her 
approaching  end;  and  Gertrude,  as  she  surveyed  her  placid 
countenance,  was  almost  inclined  to  believe  that  she  was  yefc 
deceiving  herself  with  the  expectation  of  recovery. 

All  doubt  on  this  point  was  soon  removed  ;  for,  after  remaining 
a  short  time  engaged  in  deep  thought,  or  perhaps  in  prayer,  Mrs. 
Sullivan  opened  her  eyes,  fixed  them  upon  her  young  attendant, 
and  said,  in  a  calm,  distinct  voice, 

"  Gertrude,  I  shall  never  see  Willie  again '  " 

Gertrude  made  no  reply. 

"  I  wish  to  write  and  tell  him  so  myself,'  she  continued 
"  or,  rather,  if  you  will  write  for  me,  as  you  have  done  £0  many 
times  already,  I  should  like  i^j  tell  you  what  to  say ;  and  I  feel 
that  no  time  is  to  be  lost,  for  I  am  failing  fast,  and  may  not  long 
have  strength  enough  left  to  do  it.  It  will  devolve  upon  you,  mj 
child,  to  let  him  know  when  all  is  over ;  but  you  have  had  too 
many  sad  duties  already,  and  it  will  spare  you  somewhat  t:>  have 
me  prepare  him  to  hear  bad  news.  Will  you  commence  a  letter 
to-day  ? 

"  Certainly,  auntie,  if  you  think  it  best." 

*'  I  do,  Gerty.  What  you  wrote  by  the  last  mail  was  chiefly 
concerning  grandpa's  sickness  and  death ;  and  there  was  nothing 
Aientioned  which  would  be  likely  to  alarm  him  ou  my  accoaut 
was  there  ?  " 


214 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


''NDthlDg  at  all." 

"  Then  it  is  quite  time  he  should  be  forewarned,  poor  bo^  !  1 
do  not  need  Dr.  Jeremy  to  tell  me  that  I  am  dying." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  so  ? "  asked  Gertrude,  as  she  went  to  her 
desk,  and  began  to  arrange  her  writing-materials. 

"  No,  Gerty  !  he  was  too  prudent  for  that ;  but  /  told  Mtti, 
ind  he  did  not  contradict  me.  You  have  known  it  some  time, 
>.ave  you  not  ?"  inquired  she,  gazing  earnestly  in  the  face  of  Ger- 
t'uie,  who  had  returned  to  the  couch,  and,  seated  upon  the  ?dge 
of  it,  was  bending  over  the  invalid,  and  smoothing  the  hair  from 
her  forehead. 

"  Some  weeks,"  replied  Gertrude,  as  she  spoke  imprinting  & 
kiss  upon  the  pale  brow  of  the  sufferer. 
"  Yv^hy  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I,  dear  auntie  ?  "  said  Gertrude,  her  voice  trem- 
bling with  emotion.  "  I  knew  the  Lord  could  never  call  you  at  a 
.ime  when  your  lamp  would  not  be  trimmed  and  burning." 

"  Feebly,  it  burns  feebly !  "  said  the  humble  Christian. 

*'  Whose,  then,  is  bright,"  responded  Gertrude,  "  if  yours  be 
Have  you  not,  for  years  past,  been  a  living  lesson  of  piety 
and  patience  ?  Unless  it  be  Emily,  auntie,  I  know  of  no  one  who 
seems  so  fit  for  heaven." 

"  0,  no,  Gerty  !  I  am  a  sinful  creature,  full  of  weakness ; 
much  as  I  long  to  meet  my  Saviour,  my  earthly  heart  pines  with 
the  vain  desire  for  one  more  sight  of  my  boy,  and  all  my  dreams 
of  heaven  are  mingled  with  the  aching  regret  that  the  one  bless- 
ing I  most  craved  on  earth  has  been  denied  me." 

"  0,  auntie  !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  we  are  all  human  !  Until 
the  mortal  puts  on  immortality,  how  ca7i  you  cease  to  think  of 
Willie,  and  long  for  his  presence  in  this  trying  hour  ?  It  cannot 
be  a  sin,  —  that  which  is  so  natural !  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  Gerty ;  perhaps  it  is  not ;  and,  if  it  be,  I 
trust,  before  I  gi  hence,  I  shall  be  blessed  with  a  spirit  of  perfect 
submission,  that  will  atone  for  the  occasional  murmuring  of  a 
mother  s  heart !  Kead  to  me,  my  dear,  some  holy  words  of  com- 
fort ;  you  always  seem  to  open  the  good  book  at  the  passage  1 
most  need.    It  is  sinful,  indeed,  in  me,  Gertiiide,  to  indulge  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


215 


east  repining,  olersed  as  I  am  in  the  love  and  ere  :f  one  .vht. 

is  dear  to  me  as  a  daughter !  " 

Gertrude  took  aer  Bible,  and,  opening  it  at  the  Gospel  of  St. 
Mark,  her  eye  fell  at  once  upon  the  account  of  our  Saviour's 
agony  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane.  She  rightly  believed  that 
nothing  could  be  more  appropriate  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's  state  of 
mind  than  the  touching  description  of  the  struggle  of  oar  LorJ'a 
humanity  ;  nothing  mor'^  likely  to  soothe  her  spirit,  and  reconcile 
her  to  the  ocjcasional  rebellion  of  her  own  mortal  nature,  than  the 
evident  contest  of  the  hrraan  with  the  divine  so  thrlilingly  nar- 
rated by  the  disciple ;  and  that  nothing  could  be  m,ore  inspiring 
than  the  example  of  that  holy  Son  of  God,  who  ever  to.  His  thrice- 
repoated  prayer  that,  if  possible,  the  cup  might  pass  from  him, 
added  the  pious  ejaculavion,  "  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done.'' 
Without  hesitation,  therefore,  she  read  what  first  met  her  glance, 
and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  tha  t  the  words  were  not  without 
effect ;  for,  when  she  had  finished,  she  observed  that  as  Mrs.  Sul- 
livan lay  still  and  calm  upon  her  couch,  her  lips  seemed  to  be 
repeating  the  Saviour's  prayer.  Not  wishing  to  disturb  her  medi- 
tations, Gertrude  made  no  reference  to  the  proposed  letter  to 
Willie,  but  sat  in  perfect  silence,  and  about  half  an  hour  after- 
ward Mrs.  Sullivan  fell  asleep.  It  was  a  gentle,  quiet  slumber, 
and  Gertrude  sat  and  watched  with  pleasure  the  peaceful,  happy 
expression  of  her  features.  Darkness  had  come  on  before  she 
awoke,  and  so  shrouded  the  room  that  Gertrude,  who  still  sat 
there,  was  invisible  in  the  gloom.  She  started,  on  hearing  hei 
name,  and,  hastily  lighting  a  candle,  approached  the  couch. 

"  0,  Gertrude !  "  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  I  have  had  suoh  a 
beautiful  dream !  Sit  down  by  me,  my  dear,  and  let  me  tell  it  to 
you ;  it  could  not  have  been  more  vivid,  if  it  had  all  been  reality 
I  thought  I  was  sailing  rapidly  through  the  air,  and,  for  somt 
time,  I  seemed  to  float  on  and  on,  over  clouds  and  among  bright 
stars.  The  motion  was  so  gentle  that  I  did  not  grew  weary, 
though  in  my  journey  I  travelled  over  land  and  sea.  At  last  I 
Baw  bimeath  me  a  beauiifal  city,  with  churches,  towers,  noiia- 
Uients,  and  throngs  of  gay  people  ino\iLg  in  every  dir'^ctioa.  As 
I  drew  nearer,  I  could  distinguish  thv»  fa^ep  of  tl:()fce  nur^oro^iff 


215 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ffien  and  women,  and  among  them,  in  a  crowded  street,  there  was 
one  who  looked  like  Willie.  I  followed  him,  and  soon  felt  sure 
it  was  he.  He  looked  older  than  when  we  saw  him  last,  and  much 
as  I  have  always  imagined  him.,  since  the  descriptions  he  has  given 
in  his  letters  of  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  his  appear* 
ance.  I  followed  him  through  several  streets,  and  at  last  Lg 
turned  into  a  fine,  large  building,  which  stood  near  the  centre  of 
the  city.  I  went  in  also.  We  passed  through  large  halls  and 
beautifully-furnished  rooms,  and  at  last  stood  in  a  dining-saloon, 
in  the  midd>  of  which  was  a  table  covered  with  bottles,  glasses, 
and  the  remains  of  a  rich  dessert,  such  as  I  never  saw  before. 
There  was  a  group  of  young  men  round  the  table,  all  well  dressed, 
and  some  of  them  fine-looking,  so  that  at  first  I  was  quite  charmed 
with  their  appearance.  I  seemed,  however,  to  have  a  strange 
pov/er  of  looking  into  their  hearts,  and  detecting  all  the  evil  there 
was  there.  One  had  a  very  bright,  intelligent  face,  and  might 
have  been  thought  a  man  of  talent  —  and  so  he  was ;  but  I  could 
see  better  than  people  usually  can,  and  I  perceived,  by  a  sort  of 
instinct,  that  all  his  mind  and  genius  were  converted  into  a  means 
of  duping  and  deceiving  those  who  were  so  foolish  or  so  ignorant 
as  to  be  ensnared ;  and,  in  a  corner  of  his  pocket,  I  knew  he  had 
a  pair  of  loaded  dice. 

"Another  seemed  by  his  wit  and  drollery  to  be  the  charm 
of  the  company ;  but  I  could  detect  marks  of  intoxication,  and 
felt  a  certainty  that  in  less  than  an  hour  he  would  cease  to  be  the 
master  of  his  own  actions. 

"  A  third  was  making  a  vain  attempt  to  look  happy ;  but  his 
very  soul  was  bared  to  my  searching  gaze,  and  I  was  aware  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  the  day  before  lost  at  the  gaming-table  all 
his  own  and  a  part  of  his  employer's  money,  and  was  tortured 
with  anxiety  lest  he  might  not  this  evening  be  fortunate  enough 
to  win  it  back. 

"There  were  many  others  present,  and  all,  more  or  less  sunk  in 
dissipation,  had  reached  various  stages  on  the  road  to  ruin.  Their 
laces,  however,  looked  animated  and  gay,  and,  as  Willie  glanced 
from  one  to  another,  he  seemed  pleased  and  attracted. 

"  One  of  them  offered  him  a  seat  at  the  table,  and  all  riigei 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


217 


him  take  it.  He  did  so,  and  the  young  man  at  his  right  filled 
a  giat:*s  vi'ith  bright  wine  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  hesitated, 
then  took  it  and  raised  ifc  to  his  lips.  Just  then  I  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder.  He  turned,  saw  me,  and  instantly  the  glass  feli 
from  his  hand  and  was  broken  into  a  thousand  pieces.  I  beck- 
oned, and  he  immediately  rose  and  followed  me.  The  gay  circle 
he  had  left  called  loudly  upon  him  to  return;  one  of  them  even 
laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  tried  to  detain  him ;  but  he  would 
not  listen  or  stay  —  he  shook  off  the  hand  that  would  have  held 
him,  and  we  went  on.  Before  we  had  got  outside  the  building, 
the  man  whom  I  had  first  noticed,  and  whom  I  knew  to  be  the 
most  artful  of  the  company,  came  out  from  a  room  near  the  door, 
which  he  had  reached  by  some  other  direction,  and,  approaching 
Willie,  whispered  in  his  ear.  Willie  faltered^  turned,  and  would 
perhaps  have  gone  back ;  but  I  placed  myself  in  front  of  him,  held 
up  my  finger  menacingly,  and  shook  my  head.  He  hesitated  no 
longer,  but,  flinging  aside  the  tempter,  rushed  out  of  the  door, 
and  was  down  the  long  flight  of  steps  before  I  could  overtake  him. 
I  seemed,  however,  to  move  w^ith  great  rapidity,  and  soon  found 
myself  taking  the  lead,  and  guiding  my  son  through  the  intricate, 
crowded  streets  of  the  city.  Many  were  the  adventures  we  en- 
countered, many  the  snares  we  found  laid  for  the  unwary  in  every 
direction.  More  than  once  my  watchful  eye  saved  the  thoughtless 
boy  by  my  side  from  some  pitfall  or  danger,  into  which,  without 
me,  he  would  have  surely  fallen.  Occasionally  f  lost  sight  of 
him,  and  was  obliged  to  turn  back ;  now  he  had  been  separated 
from  me  by  the  crowd,  and  consequently  missed  his  way,  and 
now  he  had  purposely  lingered  to  witness  or  join  in  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  gay  populace.  Each  time,  however,  he  listened  to 
my  warning  voice,  and  we  went  on  in  safety. 

At  last,  however,  in  passing  through  a  brilliantly-lighted  street, 
—  for  it  was  now  evening,. —  I  suddenly  observed  that  he  was 
absent  from  my  side.  I  went  backwards  and  forwards,  but  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  For  an  hour  I  hunted  the  streets,  and  called 
him  by  name;  but  there  was  no  answer.  I  then  unfolded  my 
wings,  and,  soaring  high  above  the  crowded  town,  surveyed  the 
19 


218 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


wMe,  hoping  tbat  in  that  one  glance  I  might,  as  1  had  at  first 
done,  detect  my  boy. 

*'Iwas  not  disappointed.    In  a  gorgeous  hall,  dazzlingly  lit, 
and  filled  with  gayety  and  fashion,  I  beheld  Willie.    A  brilliant 
young  creature  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  I  saw  into  her  heart, 
and  knew  that  she  was  not  blind  to  his  beauty  or  insensible  to  his 
attractions.    But,  0  !  I  trembled  for  him  now  !    She  was  lovely 
and  rich,  and  it  was  evident  to  me,  from  the  elegance  of  her  dress 
and  the  attention  she  attnic ted,  that  she  was  also  fashionable  and 
admired.    I  saw  into  her  soul,  however,  and  she  was  vain,  proud, 
cold-hearted,  and  worldly;  and,  if  she  loved  Willie,  it  was  his 
beauty,  his  winning  manners,  and  his  smile  that  pleased  her  — 
not  his  noble  nature,  which  she  knew  not  how  to  prize.    As  they 
promenaded  through  the  hall,  and  she,  whom  crowds  were  praising, 
gave  all  her  time  and  thoughts  to  him,  I,  descending  in  an  invisi- 
ble shape,  and  standing  by  his  side,  touched  his  shoulder,  as  I 
had  done  before.    He  looked  around,  but,  before  he  could  see  his 
mother's  face,  the  siren's  voice  attracted  all  his  attention.  Again 
and  again  I  endeavored  to  win  him  away  ;  but  he  heard  me  not. 
At  length  she  spoke  some  word  that  betrayed  to  my  high-minded 
boy  the  folly  and  selfishness  of  her  worldly  soul.    I  seized  the 
moment  when  she  had  thus  weakened  her  hold  upon  him,  and, 
clasping  him  in  my  arms,  spread  my  wings  and  soared  far,  fai 
away,  bearing  with  me  the  prize  I  had  toiled  after  and  won.  As 
we  rose  into  th^  air,  my  manly  son  became  in  my  encircling  arms 
a  child  again,  and  there  rested  on  my  bosom  the  same  little  head, 
with  its  soft,  silken  curls,  that  had  nestled  there  in  infancy.  Back 
we  flew,  over  sea  and  land,  and  paused  not  until  on  a  soft,  grassy 
slope,  under  the  shade  of  green  trees,  I  thought  I  saw  my  darling 
Gerty,  and  was  flying  to  lay  my  precious  boy  at  her  feet,  wben  I 
awoke,  pronouncing  your  name. 

**And  now,  Gertrude,  the  bitterness  of  the  cup  I  am  called 
upon  to  drink  is  passed  away.  A  blessed  angel  has  indeed  minis- 
tered unto  me.  I  no  longer  wish  to  see  my  son  again  on  earth, 
for  I  am  persuaded  that  my  departure  is  in  perfect  accordance 
with  the  schemes  of  a  merciful  Providence.  I  now  believe  that 
Willie's  living  mother  might  be  powerless  to  turn  him  from  tempU 


TflE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


219 


atioti  auvl  evil ;  but  the  spirit  of  that  mother  will  bo  mighty 
still,  and  in  the  thought  that  she,  ki  her  home  beyond  the  skies,  is 
ever  wacching  around  his  path,  and  strivin^^^  to  lead  him  in  the 
straight  and  narrow  way,  he  may  find  a  truer  shield  from  danger, 
a  firmer  rest  to  his  tempted  soul,  than  she  could  have  been  while 
yet  on  earth.  Now,  0  my  Father,  I  can  say,  from  the  depths  of 
my  heart,  *  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  !  '  " 

From  this  time  until  her  death^  which  took  place  about  a  month 
afterward,  Mrs.  Sullivan's  mind  remained  in  a  state  of  perfect 
resignation  and  tranquillity.  As  she  said,  the  last  pang  had  lost 
its  bitterness.  In  the  letter  which  she  dictated  to  Willie,  she 
expressed  her  perfect  trust  in  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  Provi- 
dence, and  exhorted  him  to  cherish  the  same  submissive  love  foi 
the  All-wise.  She  reminded  him  of  the  early  lessons  she  had 
taught  him,  the  piety  and  self-command  which  she  had  inculcated, 
and  made  it  her  dying  prayer  that  her  influence  might  be  in- 
creased, rather  than  diminished,  and  her  presence  felt  to  be  a 
continual  reality.  She  gave  the  important  caution  to  one  who  had 
faithfully  struggled  with  adversity  to'  beware  of  the  dangers  and 
snares  which  attend  prosperity,  and  besought  him  never  to  dis- 
credit or  disgrace  his  childhood's  training. 

After  Gertrude  had  folded  the  letter,  which  she  supposed  com- 
pleted, and  left  the  house  to  attend  to  those  duties  in  school  which 
she  still  continued  regularly  to  perform,  Mrs.  Sullivan  re-opened 
the  nearly-covered  sheet,  and,  with  her  own  feeblS  and  trembling 
hand,  recounted  the  disinterested,  patient,  loving  devotion  of  Ger- 
trude. So  long,"  said  she,  my  son,  as  you  cherish  in  your 
heart  the  memory  of  your  grandfather  and  mother,  cease  not  to 
bestow  all  the  gratitude  of  which  that  heart  is  capable  upon  one 
whosa  praises  my  hand  is  too  feeble  to  portray." 

So  slow  and  gradual  was  the  decline  of  Mrs.  Sullivan,  that  her 
death  at  last  came  as  an  unexpected  blow  to  Gertrude,  who, 
though  she  saw  the  ravages  of  disease,  could  not  realize  that  a 
termination  must  come  to  their  work. 

In  the  dead  hours  of  the  night,  with  no  one  to  sustain  and 
encourage  her  but  the  frightened  and  trembling  Jane,  did  she 
watch  the  departing  spirit  of  her  much-loved  friend.    *  *  Arc  you 


220 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


afraid  to  see  me  die,  Gertrude?"  asked  Mrs.  Sullivan,  aLout  an 
hour  before  her  death.  On  Gertrude's  answering  that  she  was 
n-t,  —  Then  turn  mc  a  little  towards  you,"  said  she,  **  that  yout 
face,  my  darling,  may  be  the  last  to  mc  of  earth." 

It  was  done,  and,  with  her  hand  locked  fast  in  Gertrude's,  and 
ft  look  that  spoke  of  the  deepest  aSectioa,  she  expired. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


But,  whatsoe'er  the  weal  or  woe 
That  Heaven  across  her  lot  might  throf7, 
Full  Avcll  her  Christian  spirit  knew 
Its  path  of  virtue,  straight  and  true. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

Not  UD til  lier  work  of  love  was  thus  ended  did  Gertrude  beeoma 
conscious  that  the  long  continuance  of  her  labors  by  night  and 
day  had  worn  upon  her  frame  and  utterly  exhausted  her  strength. 
For  a  week  after  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  laid  in  het  grave,  Br.  Jeremy 
was  seriously  apprehensive  of  a  severe  illness  for  Gertrude.  But, 
after  struggling  with  her  dangerous  symptoms  for  several  days. 
she  rallied,  and,  though  still  pale  and  worn  by  care  and  anxiety, 
was  able  to  resume  her  classes  at  school,  and  make  arrangements 
lor  providing  herself  with  another  home. 

Several  homes  had  been  already  offered  to  her,  several  urgent 
invitations  given,  with  a  warmth  and  cordiality  which  made  it 
difficult  to  decline  their  acceptance ;  but  Gertrude,  though  deeply 
touched  by  the  kindness  thus  manifested  towards  her  in  her  lone- 
liness and  desolation,  preferred  to  abide  by  her  previously-formed 
resolution  to  seek  for  herself  a  permanent  boarding-place,  and, 
when  the  grounds  on  which  she  based  her  decision  were  under- 
stood by  her  friends,  they  approved  her  course,  ceased  to 
importune  her,  and  manifested  a  sincere  wish  to  be  of  service,  by 
lending  their  aid  to  the  furtherance  of  her  plans. 

Mrs.  Jeiemy  was  at  first  disposed  to  feel  hurt  and  wounded  by 
Gertmde'a  refusal  to  come  to  them  without  delay,  and  consider 
herself  established  for  any  lengtli  of  time  that  she  chose  to  re- 
main ;  and  the  doctor  himself  was  so  peremptory  with  his,  "  Oome, 
G-ertrude,  come  right  home  with  us — don't  say  a  word  1  '  that 
19* 


222 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


sli3  was  afraid  lest,  in  her  weak  state  of  health,  she  should  be 
actually  carried  off,  without  a  chance  to  remonstrate.  But,  after 
he  had  taken  upon  himself  to  give  Jane  orders  about  packing  her 
clothes  and  sending  them  after  her,  and  then  locking  up  the  house 
and  going  home  herself,  he  gave  Gertrude  an  opportunity  to  ex 
postulate,  and  present  her  reasons  for  wishing  to  decline  the 
generous  proposal. 

A.11  her  reasoning  upon  general  principles,  however,  proved 
insufficient  to  convince  the  warm-hearted  couple.  It  was  all 
nonsense  about  independent  position.  She  would  be  perfectly 
independent  with  them,  and  her  company  would  be  such  a  pleas- 
ure that  she  need  feel  no  hesitation  in  accepting  their  offer,  and 
might  be  sure  she  would  herself  be  conferring  a  favor,  instead  of 
being  the  party  obliged."  At  last  she  was  compelled  to  make 
use  of  an  argument  which  had  greatly  influenced  her  own  mind, 
and  would,  she  felt  sure,  carry  no  little  weight  with  it  in  the 
doctor's  estimation. 

Dr.  Jeremy,"  said  she,  I  hope  you  will  not  condemn  in  me 
a  motive  which  has,  I  confess,  strengthened  my  firmness  in  this 
matter.'  I  should  be  unwdling  to  mention  it,  if  I  did  not  know 
that  you  are  so  far  acquainted  with  the  state  of  affairs  between 
Mr.  Graham  and  myself  as  to  understand,  and  perhaps  in  some 
degree  sympathize  with,  my  feelings.  You  know  that  he  was 
opposed  to  my  leaving  them  and  remaining  here  this  winter,  and 
must  suspect  that,  when  we  parted,  there  was  not  a  perfectly 
good  understanding  betwean  us.  He  hinted  that  I  should  never 
be  able  to  support  myself,  and  should  be  driven  to  a  life  of 
dependence ;  and,  since  the  salary  which  I  receive  from  Mr.  W.  is 
sufficient  for  all  my  wants,  I  am  anxious  to  be  so  situated,  on  Mr. 
Graham's  return,  that  he  will  perceive  that  my  assurance,  or  boast 
(if  I  must  call  it  so),  that  I  could  earn  my  own  living,  was  not 
without  foundation." 

So  Graham  thought  .that,  without  his  sustaining  power,  you 
would  sooit  come  to  beggary  —  did  he?  Wich  your  talents,  too  ! 
—  that's  just  like  him  !  " 

0,  no,  no  !  "  replied  Gertrude,  I  did  not  say  that ;  but  I 
eeemed  to  him  a  mere  child,  and  he  did  not  realize  that,  in  giving 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


223 


roe  an  education,  be  Lad,  as  it  were,  paid  my  expenses  in  advance. 
It  was  very  natural  lio  should  distrust  my  capacity  —  he  had 
never  seen  me  compelled  to  exert  myself." 

I  understand  —  I  understand,"  said  the  doctor.  He  thought 
you  would  be  glad  enough  to  come  back  to  them  ;  —  yes,  yes,  just 
like  him!" 

*^  Well,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  I  don't  believe  he  thought 
any  such  thing.  He  was  provoked,  and  did  n't  mind  what  he 
fiaid.  Ten  to  one  he  will  never  think  of  it  again,  and  it  seems  to 
me  it  is  only  a  kind  of  pride  in  Gertrude  to  care  anything  about 
it." 

I  don't  know  that,  wife,"  said  the  doctor.  If  it  is  pride,  it 's 
an  honorable  pride,  that  I  like ;  and  I  am  not  sure  but,  if  I  were 
in  Gertrude's  place,  I  should  feel  just  as  she  does  ;  so  I  shan't 
urge  her  to  do  any  other  ways  than  she  proposes.  She  can  have 
a  boarding-place  and  yet  spend  a  good  share  of  her  time  with 
us,  what  with  running  in  and  out,  coming  to  spend  days,  and  so 
on  ;  and  she  does  n't  need  to  be  told  that,  in  case  of  any  sick- 
ness or  trouble,  our  doors  are  always  open  to  her." 

No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy  ;  "  and,  if  you  feel  set  about 
it,  Gerty  dear,  I  am  sure  I  shall  want  you  to  do  whatever 
pleases  you  best;  but  one  thing  I  do  insist  on,  and  that  is,  that 
you  leave  this  house,  which  must  look  dreary  enough  to  you  now, 
this  very  day,  go  home  with  m.e,  and  stay  until  you  get  recruited." 

Gertrude,  gladly  consenting  to  a  short  visit,  compromised  the 
matter  by  accompanying  them  without  delay ;  and  it  was  chiefly 
owing  to  the  doctor's  persevering  skill  and  care  bestowed  upon 
his  young  guest,  and  the  kind  and  motherly  nursing  of  Mrs. 
Jeremy,  that  she  escaped  the  illness  which  had  so  severely 
threatened  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.,  who  had  felt  great  sympathy  for  Ger 
trade,  in  consequence  of  the  acquaintance  they  had  had  with  the 
trying  nature  of  her  winter's  experience,  pressed  her  to  come  to 
their  house,  and  remain  until  the  return  of  Mr.  Graham  and 
Emily ;  but,  on  being  assured  by  her  that  she  was  quite  unaware 
of  the  period  of  their  absence,  and  should  not  probably  reside 
with  them  for  the  future,  they  were  satis^fied  that  she  acted  with 


224 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


wisdom  and  judgment  in  at  once  providing  herself  with  an  inde* 
pendent  situation. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold,  who  had  been  constant  in  their  atten- 
tions both  to  Mrs.  Sullivan  and  Gertrude,  and  wore  the  only 
persons,  except  the  physician,  who  had  been  admitted  to  the  sick 
room  of  the  invalid,  felt  that  they  had  a  peculiar  claim  to  tho 
guardianship  and  care  of  the  doubly-orphaned  girl,  and  were  not 
slow  to  urge  upon  her  to  become  a  member  of  their  household, 
and  accept  of  their  protection,  limiting  their  invitation,  as  the 
W.'s  had  done,  to  the  time  when  Emily  should  be  back  from  tho 
south.  Mr.  Arnold's  family,  however,  being  large,  and  his  house 
and  salary  small  in  proportion,  true  benevolence  alone  prompted 
this  proposal ;  and,  on  Gertrude's  acquainting  his  economical  and 
prudent  wife  with  the  ample  means  she  enjoyed  from  her  owa 
exertions,  and  the  decision  she  had  formed  of  procuring  an  inde- 
pendent home,  she  received  the  warm  approbation  of  both,  and 
found  in  the  latter  an  excellent  adviser  and  assistant. 

Mrs,  Arnold  had  a  widowed  sister,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
adding  to  her  moderate  income  by  receiving  into  her  family,  as 
boarders,  a  few  young  ladies,  who  came  to  the  city  for  purposes 
of  education.  Gertrude  did  not  know  this  lady  personally,  but 
had  heard  her  warmly  praised ;  and  she  indulged  the  hope  that, 
through  her  friend,  the  clergyman's  wife,  she  might  obtain  with 
her  an  agreeable  and  not  too  expensive  residence.  In  this  she 
was  not  disappointed.  Mrs.  Warren  had  fortunately  vacant,  at 
this  time,  a  large  and  cheerful  front  chamber;  and,  Mrs.  Arnold 
having  recommended  Gertrude  in  the  warmest  manner,  suitable 
terms  were  agreed  upon,  and  the  room  immediately  placed  at  her 
disposal.  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  bequeathed  to  her  all  her  furniture, 
a  pa-t  of  which  had  lately  been  purchased,  and  was,  in  accord- 
ance with  Willie's  injunctions,  most  excellent,  both  in  material 
and  workmanship;  and  Mrs.  Arnold  and  her  two  eldest  daughters 
insisted  that,  in  consideration  of  her  recent  fatigue  and  bereave 
ment,  she  should  consent  to  attend  only  to  her  school  duties,  and 
leave  to  them  the  task  of  furnishing  her  room  with  such  articles 
as  she  preferred  to  have  placed  there,  and  supei intending  the 
packing  away  of  all  other  movables ;  for  Gertrude  was  unwilling 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


225 


that  aiijtliing  should  be  sold.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  h^i  tbug 
gpared  the  cruel  trial  of  seeing  the  house  her  lost  friend  had 
taken  so  much  j^leasure  and  pride  in  stripped  and  left  desolate , 
and  though,  on  first  entering  her  apartment  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  a 
deep  sadness  crept  into  her  heart  at  the  sight  of  the  familiar  fur- 
niture, she  could  not  but  think,  as  she  observed  the  neatness, 
care,  and  taste  with  which  everything  had  been  arranged  for  her 
reception,  that  It  would  be  a  sin  to  repine  and  call  one's  self 
wretched  and  alone  in  a  world  which  contained  hearts  so  quick 
to /eel,  and  hands  so  ready  to  labor,  as  those  that  had  interested 
themselves  for  her. 

On  entering  the  dining-room  the  first  evening  after  she  took 
up  her  residence  at  Mrs.  Warren's,  she  expected  to  meet  only 
strangers  at  the  tea-table,  but  was  agreeably  disappointed  at  the 
sight  of  Fanny  Bruce,  who,  left  in  Boston  while  her  mother  and 
brother  were  spending  the  winter  in  travelling,  had  now  been 
several  weeks  an  inmate  of  Mrs.  Warren's  house.  Fanny  was  a 
school-girl,  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age ;  and  having,  for  some 
summers  past,  been  a  near  neighbor  to  Gertrude,  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  seeing  her  frequently  at  Mr.  Graham's,  had  sometimes 
begged  flowers  from  her,  borrowed  books,  and  obtained  assistance 
in  her  fancy-work.  She  admired  Gertrude  exceedingly;  had 
hailed  with  great  delight  the  prospect  of  knowing  her  better,  as 
she  hoped  to  do  at  Mrs.  Warren's ;  and  when  she  met  the  gaze 
of  her  large,  dark  eyes,  and  saw  a  smile  of  pleasure  overspread 
her  countenance  at  the  sight  of  a  fimiliar  face,  she  felt  embold- 
ened to  come  forward,  shake  hands,  and  beg  that  Miss  Flint 
would  sit  next  her  at  the  table. 

Fanny  Bruce  was  a  girl  of  good  disposition  and  warm  heart, 
but  she  had  been  much  neglected  by  her  mother,  whose  cLief 
pride  was  in  her  son,  the  same  Ben  of  whom  we  have  previously 
spoken.  She  had  often  been  left  behind  in  some  boarding-house, 
while  her  pleasure-loving  mother  and  indolent  brother  passed 
their  time  in  journeying ;  and  had  not  always  been  so  fortunately 
utuited  as  at  present.  A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  want  of  sj'm- 
pathy  in  any  of  her  pursuits,  had  been  a  source  of  great  unhap. 
pjuess  to  the  poor  child,  who  labored  under  the  painful  cousciuus« 


226 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ness  that  but  little  interest  was  felt  by  any  one  in  bcr  improv*?- 
ment  or  happiness 

Gertrude  had  not  been  long  at  Mrs.  Warren's  before  she 
observed  that  Fanny  occupied  an  isolated  position  in  tlic  family. 
She  was  a  few  years  younger  than  her  companions,  three  dressy 
misses,  who  could  not  condescend  to  admit  her  into  their  clique  "; 
and  Mrs.  Warren's  time  was  so  much  engrossed  by  househcld 
duties  that  she  took  but  little  notice  of  her.  Her  apparent  lone- 
liness could  not  fail  to  excite  the  compassion  of  one  wha  wan 
herself  suiFering  from  recent  sorrow  and  bereavement;  and, 
although  the  quiet  and  privacy  of  her  own  room  were,  at  this 
time,  grateful  to  Gertrude's  feelings,  pity  for  poor  Fanny  induced 
her  to  invite  her  frequently  to  come  and  sit  with  her,  and  she 
often  so  far  forgot  her  own  griefs  as  to  exert  herself  in  providing 
entertainment  for  her  young  visitor,  who,  on  her  part,  considered 
it  privilege  enough  to  share  Gertrude's  retirement,  read  her  books, 
and  feel  confident  of  her  friendship.  During  the  month  of 
March,  which  was  unusually  stormy,  Fanny  spent  ahnost  every 
evening  with  Gertrude ;  and  she,  who  at  first  felt  that  she  was 
making  a  sacrifice  of  her  own  comfort  and  ease  by  giving  another 
Buch  constant  access  to  her  apartment,  came,  at  last,  to  realize 
the  force  of  Uncle  True's  prophecy,  that,  in  her  efforts  for  the 
happiness  of  others,  she  would  at  last  find  her  own ;  for  Fanny's 
lively  and  often  amusing  conversation  drew  Gertrude  from  the 
contemplation  of  her  trials,  and  the  interest  and  affection  she 
awakened  saved  her  from  the  painful  consciousness  of  her  solitary 
situation. 

April  arrived,  and  still  no  further  news  from  Emily.  Ger- 
trude's heart  ached  with  a  vain  longing  to  once  more  pour  out 
her  griefs  on  the  bosom  of  that  dear  fiiend,  and  find  in  her 
consolation,  encouragement,  and  support.  She  longed  to  te\l  her 
how  many  times  during  the  winter  she  had  sig]]ed  for  the  gentle 
touch  of  the  soft  band  which  was  wont  to  rest  so  lovingly 
on  her  head,  the  sound  of  that  sweet  voice  whose  very  tones 
were  comforting.  For  some  time  Gertrude  wrote  regularly,  but  of 
iate  sbo  had  not  known  where  to  direct  her  letters ;  and  since 
Mrs.  Sullivan's  death  there  had  been  no  communication  betwecD 


THE  LAMPLiGHTKR. 


227 


Dct  and  tlio  travellers.  She  was  sitting  at  her  window,  one  even* 
ing,  thinking  of  that  group  of  friends  whom  she  had  loved  with 
a  daughter's  and  a  sister's  love,  and  who  were  now  separated 
from  her  by  distance,  or  that  greater  barrier,  death,  when  she 
was  summoned  below  stairs  to  see  Mr.  Arnold  and  his  daughter 
Anne. 

After  the  usual  civilities  and  inquiries,  Miss  Arnold  turned  to 
Gertrude  and  said,  Of  course  you  have  heard  the  news,  Ger* 
trude?" 

*'  No,"  replied  Gertrude,     I  have  heard  nothing  special." 

**What!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Arnold,  have  you  not  heard  of 
Mr.  Graham's  marriage?  " 

Gertrude  started  up  in  surprise.  *'Do  you  really  mean  so, 
Mr.  xirnold  ?    Mr.  Graham  married  !    When  ?    To  whom  ?  " 

"  To  the  widow  Holbrook,  a  sister-in-law  of  Mr.  Clinton's  ;  she 
hcis  been  staying  at  Havana  with  a  party  from  the  north,  and 
the  Grahams  met  her  there." 

But,  Gertrude,"  asked  Miss  Arnold,  how  does  it  happen  you 
had  not  heard  of  it  ?  It  is  in  all  the  newspapers  —  *  Married  in 
New  Orleans,  J.  H.  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Boston,  to  Mrs.  Somebody 
v)r  other  Holbrook.'  " 

**  I  have  not  seen  a  newspaper  for  a  day  or  two,"  replied  Ger« 
trude. 

"  And  Miss  Graham's  blindness,  I  suppose,  prevents  her  writ- 
ing," said  Anne  ;  but  I  should  have  thought  Mr.  Graham  would 
have  sent  wedding  compliments." 

Gertrude  made  no  reply,  and  Miss  Arnold  continued,  laugh- 
ingly,      suppose  his  bride  engrosses  all  his  attention." 

Do  you  know  anything  of  this  Mrs.  Holbrook?  "  asked  Ger- 
trude. 

Not  much,"  answered  Mr.  Arnold.  I  have  seen  her 
occasionally  at  Mr.  Clinton's.  She  is  a  handsome,  showy  woman, 
fond  of  society,  I  should  think." 

I  have  seen  her  very  2ften,"  said  Anne.  '^^  She  is  a  coarse, 
aoisy,  dashing  person,  — just  tho  one  to  make  Miss  ^Imily  misei* 
able." 


228 


TaE  LAMP  LIGHT  EK. 


Gertrude  locked  distressed, 'and  Mr.  Arnold  glanced  reprov- 
ingly at  his  daughter. 

**  Anne,"  said  he,    are  you  sure  you  speak  advisedly?  " 

'*  Belle  Clinton  is  my  authority,  father.  I  only  judge  from 
what  I  used  to  hear  her  say  at  school  about  her  Aunt  BeUa,  as 
she  always  used  to  call  her." 

Did  Isabel  represent  her  aunt  so  unfavorably  ?  " 

*'Not  intentionally,"  replied  Anne;  she  meant  the  greatest 
praise,  but  I  never  liked  anything  she  told  us  about  her." 

We  will  not  condemn  her  until  we  can  decide  upon  acquaint- 
ance," said  Mr.  Arnold,  mildly;  "perhaps  she  will  prove  the 
very  reverse  of  what  you  suppose  her." 

Can  you  tell  me  anything  concerning  Emily?  "  asked  Ger- 
trude,    and  whether  Mr.  Graham  is  soon  to  return?  " 

Nothing,"  said  Miss  Arnold.  "  I  have  seen  only  the  notice 
in  the  papers.    When  cfid  you  hear  from  them  yourself?  " 

Gertrude  mentioned  the  date  of  her  letter  from  Mrs.  Ellis,  the 
account  she  had  given  of  a  gay  party  from  the  north,  and  sug- 
gested the  probability  that  the  present  Mrs.  Graham  was  the 
widow  she  had  described. 

*'The  same,  undoubtedly,"  said  Mr.  Arnold. 

Their  knowledge  of  facts  was  so  slight,  however,  that  littie 
lomained  to  be  said  concerning  the  marriage,  and  other  topics  of 
conversation  were  introduced.  But  Gertrude  found  it  impos- 
sible to  give  her  thoughts  to  any  other  subject;  ihe  matter 
was  one  of  such  vital  importance  to  Emily,  that  her  mind  con- 
stantly recurred  to  it,  and  she  found  it  difficult  to  keep  pace  with 
Anne  Arnold's  rapidly-flowing  words  and  ideas.  The  necessity 
which  at  last  arose  of  replying  to  a  question  which  she  had  not 
at  all  understood/was  fortunately  obviated  by  the  sudden  entrance 
of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy.  The  former  held  in  his  hand  a  sealed 
letter,  directed  to  Gertrude,  in  the  hand-writing  of  Mr.  Graham 
and,  as  he  handed  it  to  her,  he  rubbed  his  hands,  and,  looking  at 
Anne  Arnold,  exclaimed,  Now,  Miss  Anne,  we  shall  hear  all 
ftbout  these  famous  nuptials  !  " 

I'^'indin^  her  visitors  thus  eager  to  learn  the  contents  of  hei 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


229 


letter,  Genrude  dispensed  with  ceremony,  broke  the  seal,  and 
hastily  perused  its  contents. 

The  envelope  contained  two  or  three  pages  closely  written  by 
Mrs.  Ellis,  and  also  a  somewhat  lengthy  note  from  Mr.  Graham. 
Surprised  as  Gertrude  was  at  any  conimunicatlon  from  one  who 
had  parted  from  her  in  anger,  her  strongest  desire  was  to  hear 
particularly  from  Emily,  and  she  thereK  re  gave  the  preference 
to  the  housekeeper's  document,  that  being  most  likely  to  contain 
the  desired  information.    It  ran  as  follows  : 

Neio  TorJc,  March  31,  lSo2. 
Dear  Gertrude  :  As  there  were  plenty  of  Boston  folks  at 
the  wedding,  I  daresay  you  have  heard  before  this  of  Mr.  Gra- 
ham's marriao-e.  He  married  the  widder  Holbrook,  the  same  I 
wrote  you  about.  She  was  determined  to  have  him,  and  she 's 
got  him.  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  he 's  got  the  worst  of  the  bai« 
gain.  He  likes  a  quiet  life,  and  he 's  lost  his  chance  of  that,- — 
poor  man  !  — for  she 's  the  greatest  hand  for  company  that  ever  I 
saw.  She  followed  Mr.  Graham  up  pretty  well  at  Havana,  but 
I  guess  he  thought  better  of  it,  and  did  n't  really  mean  to  have 
her.  When  we  got  to  New  Orleans,  however,  she  was  there  ; 
and  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  she  carried  her  point, *and  married 
him.  Emily  behaved  beautifully ;  she  never  said  a  word  against 
it,  and  always  treated  the  widder  as  pleasantly  as  could  be  ;  but, 
dear  me  !  how  will  our  Emily  get  along  with  so  many  young  folks 
as  there  are  about  all  the  time  now,  and  so  much  noise  and  con- 
fusion? For  my  part,  I  an't  used  to  it,  and  don't  pretend  that 
I  think  it 's  agreeable.  The  new  larly  is  civil  enough  to  me,  now 
she's  married.  I  daresay  she  thinks  it  stands  her  in  hand,  as 
long  as  she 's  one  of  the  family,  and  I 've  been  in  it  so  long.  Bufc 
I  suppose  you  Ve  been  wondering  what  had  become  of  us,  Ger» 
trude,  and  will  bo  surprised  to  find  we 've  got  so  far  as  New 
York,  on  our  way  home,— m?/  way  home,  I  should  say,  ffor  I'm 
the  only  one  that  talks  of  coming  at  present.  The  truth  is,  I 
kept  meaning  to  write  while  we  were  in  New  Orleans,  but  there 
I5^as  so  much  going  on  I  did  n't  get  a  chance ;  and,  after  that 
lorrid  steamboat  from  Charleston  here,  I  was  n't  goo  I  for  any* 
20 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


tiling  for  a  week.  Bat  Emily  was  so  anxious  to  have  30U  wriite^*. 
to  that  I  could  n't  put  it  off  any  longer  than  until  to-day.  Poot 
Emily  is  n't  very  well ;  I  don't  moan  that  she 's  downright  sick, 
—  it 's  low  spirits  and  nervousness,  I  suppose,  more  than  any- 
thing. She  gets  tired  and  worried  very  quick,  and  is  easily 
startler!  and  disturbed,  which  did  n't  use  to  be  the  case.  I  think 
likely  ii 's  the  new  wife,  and  all  the  nieces,  and  other  disagree-ible 
things.  She  never  complains,  and  nobody  would  know  but  what 
she  was  pleased  to  have  her  father  married  again  ;  '  ut  she  has  n't 
seemed  quite  happy  all  winter  and  now  it  troubles  me  to  see  how 
sad  she  looks  sometimes.  She  talks  a  sight  about  you,  and  felt 
dreadfully  not  to  get  any  more  letters.  To  come  to  the  principal 
thing,  however,  they  are  all  going  to  Europe,  —  Emily  and  all. 
I  take  it  it 's  the  new  wife's  idea  ;  but,  whoever  proposed  the 
thing,  it 's  all  settled  now.  Mr.  Graham  wanted  me  to  go,  but  I. 
would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing  ;  I  would  as  soon  be  hung  as 
venture  on  the  sea  again,  and  I  told  him  so,  up  and  down.  So 
now  he  has  written  for  you  to  go  with  Emily ;  and,  if  jou  are  not 
afraid  of  sea-sickness,  I  hope  you  won't  refuse,  for  it  would  be 
dreadful  for  her  to  have  a  stranger,  and  you  know  she  always 
needs  somebody,  on  account  of  her  blindness.  I  do  not  think  sho 
has  the  least  wish  to  go  ;  but  she  would  not  ask  to  be  left  behind^ 
for  fear  her  father  should  think  she  did  not  like  the  new  wife. 
**  As  soon  as  they  sail,  —  which  will  be  the  last  of  April,  —  I 

shall  come  back  to  the  house  in  D  ,  and  see  to  things  thero 

while  they  are  away.  I  am  going  to  write  a  postscript  to  you 
from  Emily,  and  I  believe  I  will  add  nothing  more  myself,  except 
that  we  shall  be  very  impatient  to  hear  your  answer ;  and  T  must 
gay  once  more  that  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  to  go  with  Emily. 
"Yours,  very  truly, 

Sarah  H.  Ellis." 

The  postscript  contained  the  following: 

*'I  need  not  tell  my  darling  Gertrude  how  much  I  have  missed 
her,  and  longed  to  have  her  with  me  again  ;  how  T  have  thought 
of  her  by  night  and  day,  and  prayed  God  to  strengthen  and 
fit  her  for  her  many  trials  and  labors.    The  letter  written  soon 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


233 


after  Mi  CoAper's  death  is  the  last  that  has  reached  me,  and 
I  do  not  know  whether  Mrs.  Sullivan  is  still  living.  Write 
to  me  at  once,  my  dear  child,  if  you  cannot  come  to  us.  Father 
will  tell  you  of  our  plans,  and  ask  you  to  accompany  us  to  Europe ; 
my  hcait  will  be  light  if  I  can  take  my  dear  Gerty  with  me,  but 
not  if  she  leave  any  other  duty  behind.  I  trust  to  you,  my  love, 
to  decide  aright.  You  have  heard  of  father's  marriage.  It  is  a 
great  change  for  us  all,  but  will,  I  trust,  result  in  happiness. 
Mrs.  Graham  has  two  nieces  who  are  with  us  at  the  hotel.  They 
are  to  be  of  our  party  to  go  abroad,  and  are,  I  understand,  very 
beautiful  girls,  especially  Belle  Clinton,  whom  you  have  seen  in 
Boston  some  years  ago.  Mrs.  Ellis  is  very  tired  of  writing,  and 
I  must  close  with  assuring  my  dearest  Gertrude  of  the  devoted 
affection  of  Emily  Gkaham." 

It  was  with  great  curiosity  that  Gertrude  unfolded  Mr.  Gra- 
ham's epistle  ;  she  thought  it  would  be  awkvrard  for  him  to 
address  her,  and  wondered  much  whether  he  Vvould  maintain  his 
severe  and  authoritative  tone,  or  condescend  to  explain  and 
apologize.  Had  she  known  him  better,  she  would  have  been 
assured  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  him  to  do  the  latter,  for 
he  was  one  of  those  persons  who  never  believe  themselves  in  the 
wrong.    The  letter  ran  thus : 

'*MiS3  GePwTrudb  Flint:  t  am  married,  and  intend  to  go 
abroad  on  the  28th  of  April  ;  my  daughter  will  accompany 
us,  and,  as  Mrs.  Ellis  dreads  the  sea,  I  am  induced  to  propose 
that  you  johi  us  in  New  York,  and  attend  the  party,  as  a  com- 
panion to  Emily.  I  have  not  forgotten  the  ingratitude  with  which 
you  once  slighted  a  similar  offer  on  my  part,  and  nothing  would 
compel  me  to  give  you  another  opportunity  to  manifest  such  a 
spirit,  but  a  desire  to  promote  the  hqopiness  of  Emily,  and  a 
sincere  wish  to  be  of  service  to  a  young  person  who  has  been  in 
my  family  so  long  that  I  feel  a  friendly  interest  in  providing  for 
her.  I  thus  put  it  in  your  power,  by  complying  with  our  wishes, 
to  do  away  froui  my  mind  the  recollection  of  your  past  behavior ; 
and,  if  you  choose  to  return  to  us,  I  shall  enable  vou  to  maintaiu 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


the  place  and  appearance  of  a  lady.  As  we  sail  the  last  of  the 
month,  it  is  important  you  should  he  here  in  the  course  of  a  fort- 
night; and.  if  you  will  write  and  name  the  day,  I  will  myself  meet 
you  at  the  boat.  Mrs.  Ellis  being  anxious  to  return  to  Boston, 
L  hope  you  will  come  as  soon  as  possible.  As  you  will  be  obliged 
to  incur  expenses,  I  enclose  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  to  cover 
them.  If  you  have  contracted  debts,  let  me  know  to  what  amount, 
and  I  will  see  that  all  is  made  right  before  you  leave.  Trusting 
to  your  being  now  come  to  a  sense  of  your  duty,  I  am  ready  to 
subscribe  myself  your  friend,  ^  J.  II.  Gpaham.'^ 

Gertrude  was  sitting  near  a  lamp  whose  light  fell  directly 
apon  ^Zi'  face,  which,  as  she  glanced  over  Mr.  Graham's  note, 
flushed  crimson  with  wounded  pride.  Dr.  Jeremy,  who  was 
watching  her  countenance,  observed  that  she  changed  color ;  and 
during  the  few  minutes .  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Arnold  staid  to  hear 
the  news  he  gave  an  occasional  glance  of  defiance  at  the  letter, 
and  as  soon  as  they  were  gone  begged  to  made  acquainted 
with  its  contents,  assuring  Gertrude  that  if  she  did  not  let  him 
know  what  Graham  said,  he  should  believe  it  a  thousand  times 
more  insulting  than  it  really  was. 

"  He  writes,"  said  Gertrude,  "  to  invite  me  to  accompany  them 
to  Europe.'' 

"Indeed!"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  with  a  low  whistle,  "and  he 
thinks  you  '11  be  silly  enough  to  pack  up  and  start  oflF  at  a 
minute's  notice  !  " 

"  Why,  Gerty,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "you  '11  like  to  go,  shan't 
you,  dear?    It  will  be  delightful." 

"Delightful  nonsense,   Mrs.  Jerry!"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

What  is  there  delightful,  T  want  to  know,  in  travelling  about 
with  an  arrogant  old  tyrant,  his  blind  daughter,  upstart,  dashy 
wife,  and  her  two  fine-lady  nieces  ?  A  pretty  position  Gertrude 
woul  1  be  in,  a  slave  to  the  whims  of  all  that  company  !  " 

Wliy,  Dr.  Jerry,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "you  forget  Emily.'' 

"Emily, —  to  be  sure,  she  's  an  angel,  and  never  would  impose 
upon  anybody,  least  of  all  her  own  pet;  but  she  '11  have  to  play 
Becond  fiddle  herself,  and  I'm  mistaken  if  she  does  n't  find  it 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


233 


(iretty  hard,  to  defend  her  rights  and  matntain  a  eomfortahle  posi- 
tion in  her  father's  enlarged  family  circle." 

**So  much  the  more  need,  then/'  said  Gertrude,  **that  soms 
one  should  be  enlisted  in  her  interests,  to  ward  off  the  approach 
of  every  annoyance." 

**  Do  you  mean,  then,  to  put  yourself  in  the  breach?"  asked 
the  doctor. 

*'I  mean  to  accept  Mr.  Graham's  invitation,"  replied  Ger» 
trude,  "and  join  Emily  at  once;  but  I  trust  the  harmony  that 
seems  to  subsist  between  her  and  her  new  connections  will  con- 
tinue undisturbed,  so  that  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to  take  up 
arms  on  her  account,  and  on  my  own  I  do  not  entertain  a  single 
fear." 

**  Then  you  really  think  you  shall  go,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

*'  I  do,"  said  Gertrude;  "  nothing  but  my  duty  to  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van and  her  father  led  me  to  think  of  leaving  Emily.  That  duty 
is  at  an  end,  and  now  that  I  can  be  of  use  to  her,  and  she  wi.-^hes 
me  back,  I  cannot  hesitate  a  moment.  I  see  very  plainly,  from 
Mrs.  Ellis's  letter,  that  Emily  is  not  happy,  and  nothing  which  I 
can  do  to  make  her  so  must  be  neglected.  Only  think,  Mrs. 
Jeremy,  what  a  friend  she  has  been  to  me  !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  *'  and  I  dare  say  you  will  en« 
joy  the  journey,  in  spite  of  all  the  scare-crows  the  doctor  sets  up  to 
frighten  you  ;  but  still,  I  declare,  it  does  seem  a  sacrifice  lor  you 
to  leave  your  beautiful  room,  and  all  your  comforts,  for  such  an 
uncertain  sort  of  life  as  one  has  travelling  with  a  large  party." 

"  Sacrifice  !  "  interrupted  the  doctor,  ''it 's  the  greatest  sacrifice 
that  ever  I  heard  of  !  It  is  not  merely  giving  up  three  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  a  year  of  her  own  earning,  and  as  pleasant  a 
home  as  there  is  in  Boston  ;  it  is  relinquishing  all  the  independ- 
ence that  she  has  been  striving  after,  and  which  she  was  so 
anxious  to  maintain  that  she  would  not  accept  of  anybody's  hospi* 
ahty  for  more  than  a  week  or  two." 

"  No,  doctor,"  said  Gertrude,  warmly,  "  nothing  that  I  do  for 
Emily's  sake  can  be  called  a  sacrifice  ;  it  is  my  greatest  pleasure." 

*'  Gerty  always  finds  her  pleasure  in  doing  what  is  right/' 
remarked  Mrs.  Jeremy. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


•'0,  no/'  saiil  Gertrude,  "  my  wishes  would  often  lead  mo 
astray  ;  but  not  in  this  case.  The  thought  that  our  dear  Emily  was 
dependent  upon  a  stranger  for  all  those  little  attentions  that  are 
only  acceptable  from  those  she  loves  would  make  me  miserable  , 
our  happiness  has  for  years  been  almost  wholly  in  each  other, 
and  when  one  has  suffered,  the  other  has  suffered  also.  I  must 
go  to  her ;  I  cannot  think  of  doing  otherwise." 

wish  I  thought,"  muttered  Dr.  Jeremy,  ''that  the  sacrifice 
you  make  would  be  half  appreciated.  But  there's  Graham,  I  '11 
venture  to  say,  thinking  it  will  be  the  greatest  favor  in  the  world 
to  take  you  back  again.  Perhaps  he  addresses  you  as  a  beggar  ; 
it  would  n't  be  the  first  time  he 's  done  such  a  thing.  I  wonder 
what  would  have  induced  poor  Philip  Amory  to  go  back." 
Then,  in  a  louder  tone,  he  incjuired,  "Has  he  made  any  apology 
in  his  letter  for  past  unkindness  ?  " 

I  do  not  think  he  considered  any  to  be  needed,"  replied 

Gertrude. 

''Then  he  didn't  make  any  sort  of  excuse  for  his  ungentle- 
manly  behavior  !  I  might  have  known  he  would  n't.  I  declare, 
it 's  a  shame  you  should  be  exposed  to  any  more  such  treatment ; 
but  I  always  did  hear  that  women  were  self-forgetful  in  their 
friendship,  and  I  believe  it.  Gertrude  makes  an  excellent  friend. 
Mrs.  Jerry,  we  must  cultivate  her  regard,  and  some  time  or  other 
perhaps  make  a  loud  call  upon  her  services." 

And  if  ever  you  do,  sir,  I  shall  be  ready  to  respond  to  it , 
if  there  is  a  person  in  the  world  who  owes  a  debt  to  society,  it  is 
myself.  I  hear  the  world  called  cold,  selfish,  and  unfeeling;  but 
it  has  not  been  so  to  me.  I  should  bo  ungrateful  if  I  did  not 
cherish  a  spirit  of  universal  love ;  how  much  more  so,  if  I  did 
not  feel  bound  heart  and  hand  to  those  dear  friends  who  have 
bestowed  upon  me  such  affection  as  no  orphan  ever  found  before  !  " 

-  Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  ''  I  believe  that  you  were  right 
in  leaving  Emily  when  you  did,  and  that  you  are  right  in  return- 
ing to  her  now  ;  and,  if  your  being  such  a  good  girl  as  you  are 
Is  at  all  due  to  her,  she  certainly  has  a  great  claim  upon  you." 

-  She  has  a  claim  indeed,  Mrs.  Jeremy  I  It  was  Emily  wha 
first  taught  me  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  —  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


235 


And  she  is  going  to  reap  the  benefit  of  that  knowledge  in 
you,"  said  the  doctor,  in  continuation  of  her  remark.  **  That 's 
fair  !  But,  if  you  are  resolved  to  take  this  European  tour,  you 
will  be  busy  enough  with  your  preparations.  Do  you  think  Mr, 
W.  will  be  willing  to  give  you  up  ?  " 

I  hope  so,"  said  Gertrude ;  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  ask 
it  of  him,  for  he  has  been  very  indulgent  to  me,  and  I  have 
been  absent  from  school  two  weeks  out  of  the  winter  already ; 
but,  as  there  want  only  a  few  months  to  the  summer  vacjation,  he 
will,  perhaps,  bo  able  to  supply  my  place.  I  shall  speak  to  him 
about  it  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Jeremy  nuw  interested  herself  in  the  details  of  Gertrude's 
arrangements,  offLired  an  attic-room  for  the  storage  of  her  furni- 
ture, gave  up  to  her  a  dress  maker  whom  she  had  engaged  for 
herself,  and,  before  she  left,  a  plan  was  laid  out,  by  following 
which  Gertrude  would  be  enabled  to  start  for  New  York  in  less 
than  a  week. 

Mr.  W.,  on  being  applied  to,  relinquished  Gertrude,  though 
deeply  regretting,  as  he  told  her,  to  lose  so  valuable  an  assistant ; 
and,  after  a  few  days  busily  occupied  in  preparation,  she  bade 
fl\rewell  to  the  tearful  Fanny  Bruce,  the  bustling  doctor  and  hia 
kind-hearted  wife,  all  of  whom  accompanied  her  to  the  railroad- 
station.  She  promised  to  write  to  the  Jeremys,  and  they,  on 
their  part,  agreed  to  forward  to  her  any  letters  that  might  arrive 
from  Willie. 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  from  the  time  of  her  departure,  Mrs.  Ellis 
returned  to  Boston,  and  brought  news  of  the  safe  conclusion  of 
Gertrude's  journey.  A  letter,  received  a  week  after,  by  Mrs, 
Jeremy,  announced  that  they  should  sail  in  a  few  days.  She  was, 
therefore,  surprised,  when  a  second  epistle  was  put  into  her  hands, 
dated  the  day  succeeding  that  on  which  she  supposed  Mr.'  Graham's 
parr  J  to  have  left  the  country.    It  was  as  follows : 

"  New  Torh,  April  2dth, 
My  dear  Mr^.  Jeremy:  As  yesterday  was  the  day  on  which 
we  expected  to  sail  for  Europe,  you  will  be  somewhat  astonished 
to  hear  that  we  are  yet  in  New  York,  and  still  more  so  to  .eara 


236 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


that  the  foreign  tour  is  now  indefinitely  postponed.  Only  two 
days  since,  Mr.  Graham  was  seized  with  his  old  complaint,  the 
gout,  and  the  attack  proved  so  violent  as  seriously  to  threaten  his 
life.  Although  to-day  somewhat  relieved,  and  considered  by  his 
physician  out  of  immediate  danger,  he  remains  a  great  sufferer, 
and  a  sea- voyage  is  pronounced  impracticable  for  months  to  come. 
His  great  anxiety  is  to  be  at  home  ;  and,  as  soon  as  it  is  possible 
for  him  to  bear  the  journey,  we  shall  all  hasten  to  the  house  in  4 
D  .  I  enclose  a  note  for  Mrs.  Ellis.  It  contains  various  direc- 
tions which  Emily  is  desirous  she  should  receive  ;  and,  as  we  did 
not  know  how  to  address  her,  I  have  sent  it  to  you  trusting  to 
your  kindness  to  see  it  forwarded.  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  nieces, 
who  had  been  anticipating  much  pleasure  from  going  abroad,  are, 
of  course,  greatly  disappointed  at  the  entire  change  in  their  plans 
for  the  summer.  It  is  particularly  trying  to  Miss  Clinton,  as  her 
father  has  been  absent  more  than  a  year,  and  she  was  hoping  to 
meet  him  in  Paris. 

It  is  impossible  that  either  Emily  or  myself  should  personally 
reo-ret  a  journey  of  which  we  felt  only  dread,  and,  were  it  not 
for  Mr.  Graham's  illness  being  the  cause  of^  its  postponement,  we 
should  both,  I  think,  find  it  bird  not  to  realise  a  degree  of  self .  h 
satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of  returning  to  the  dear  old  place  n 

D_  ,  where  we  hope  to  be  established  in  the  course  of  n^e 

next  month.    I  say  we,  for  neither  Mr.  Graham  nor  Emily 
hear  of  mj  leaving  them  again. 

''Wilh  the  kindest  regards  to  yourself,  and  my  friend  t  j 
ioalOT,  I  am  yours,  very  sincerely. 

Gektrude  Fhm>  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


I  sec  her ; 
Her  hair  in  ringlets  fluttering  free, 
And  her  lips  that  move  with  melody. 

Not  she.  —  There's  a  beauty  that  lovelier  gl0W8» 
Though  her  coral  lip  with  melody  flows. 

I  sec  her ;  't  is  she  of  the  ivory  brow 
And  heaven-tinged  orbs  :  I  know  her  now. 

Not  she.  —  There's  another  more  lovely  still, 
"With  a  chastened  mind,  and  a  tempered  will. 

Caroline  Gilma.n. 

Mr.  Gtraham's  country-house  boasted  a  fine,  old-fasliioned  entry, 
^Ith  a  door  at  either  end,  both  of  which  usually  stood  open  dui> 
ing  the  warm  weather,  admitting  a  cool  current  of  air,  and  ren- 
derin<>-  the  neio-hborhood  of  the  front  entrance  a  favorite  resort 
for  the  family,  especially  during  the  early  hours  of  the  day,  when 
the  warm  sun  had  no  access  to  the  spot;  and  the  shady  yard, 
which  sloped  gradually  down  to  the  road,  was  refi-eshing  and 
grateful  to  the  sight.  Here,  on  a  pleasant  June  morning,  Isabel 
Clinton,  and  her  cousin  Kitty  Ray,  had  made  themselves  comfort- 
able, each  according  to  her  own  idea  of  what  constiluted  comfort, 

Isabel  had  drawn  a  large  arm-chair  close  to  the  door-sill,  en- 
sconced herself  in  it,  and,  although  she  held  in  her  hand  a  piece 
of  worsted-work,  was  gazing  idly  down  the  road.  She  was  a 
beautiful  girl,  tall  and  finely  formed,  with  a  delicate  complexion, 
clear  blue  eyes,  and  rich,  light,  flowing  curls.  The  same  lovely 
child,  whom  Gertrude  had  gazed  upon  with  rapture,  as,  leaning 
against  the  window  of  her  father's  house,  she  watched  old  True 
while  he  lit  his  lamp,  had  ripened  into  an  equally  lovely  woman 
Her  uncommon  beauty  aided  and  enhanced  by  all  the  advantages 


238 


THE  LAJMPLIGHTER. 


of  dress  whicli  skill  could  suggest  or  money  provide,  she  was 
universally  admired,  flattered,  and  caressed. 

At  an  early  age  deprived  of  her  mother,  and  left  for  some 
years  almost  wholly  to  the  care  of  servants,  she  soon  learned  to 
appreciate  at  more  than  their  true  value  the  outward  attractiona 
she  possessed ;  and  her  aunt,  under  whose  tutelage  she  had  been 
since  she  left  school,  was  little  calculated  to  r^onnteract  in  her  this 
undue  sclf-adniiration.  An  appearance  of  conscious  superiority 
which  distinguished  her,  and  the  independent  air  with  which  she 
tapped  against  the  door-step  with  her  little  foot,  might  safely  ha 
attributed,  then,  to  her  conviction  that  Belle  Clinton,  the  beauty 
and  the  heiress,  was  looking  vastly  well,  as  she  sat  there,  attired 
in  a  blue  cashmere  morning-dress,  richly  embroidered,  and  flowing 
open  in  front,  for  the  purpose  of  displaying  an  equally  rich 
flounced  cambric  petticoat.  It  can  scarcely  be  wondered  at  that 
she  was  herself  pleased  and  satisfied  with  an  outward  appearance 
that  could  not  fail  to  please  and  satisfy  the  most  severe  critic. 

On  a  low  step  at  her  feet  sat  Kitty  Eay,  a  complete  contrast  to 
her  cousin  in  looks,  manner,  and  many  points  of  character.  Kitty 
was  one  of  those  whom  the  world  usually  calls  a  sweet  little  creat- 
ure, lively,  playful,  and  aflfcctionate.  She  was  so  small  that  her 
childish  manners  became  her ;  so  full  of  spirits  that  her  occasional 
rudeness  claimed  pardon  on  that  score ;  too  thoughtless  to  be 
always  amiable  or  always  wise ;  and  for  all  other  faults  her  warm- 
heartedness and  generous  enthusiasm  must  plead  an  excuse  to  one 
who  wished,  or  even  endeavored,  to  love  her  as  she  wished  and 
expected  to  be  loved  by  everybody.  She  was  a  prettty  girl,  always 
bright  and  animated,  mirthful  and  happy  ;  fond  of  her  cousin  Belle, 
and  sometimes  influenced  by  her,  though  often,  on  the  other  hand, 
enlisting  with  all  her  force  on  the  opposite  side  of  some  contested 
question.  Unlike  Belle,  she  was  seldom  well  dressed,  for,  though 
possessed  of  ample  means,  she  was  very  careless.  On  the  present 
occasion,  her  dark  silk  wrapper  was  half  concealed  by  a  crimson 
flannel  sack,  which  she  held  tightly  around  her,  declaring  it  waa 
a  dreadful  chilly  morning,  and  she  was  half-frozen  to  death  —  she 
certainly  would  go  and  warm  herself  at  the  kitchen  fire,  if  she 
were  not  afraid  of  encountering  that  she-dragon  Mrs.  Ellis;  she 


THE  LAMPLTGIITEE. 


239  ^ 


was  sure  slie  did  not  see,  if  sbe  must  sit  in  tlie  door- way,  whj 
Belle  could  n't  come  to  the  side-door,  where  the  sun  shone  beauti- 
fully.   "  0,  I  forgot,  though,"  added  she  ;  "  complexion  !  " 

"  Complexion  !  "  said  Belle  ;  "I 'm  no  more  afraid  of  hurting 
my  complexion  than  you  are ;  I 'm  sure  I  never  freckle,  or  tan 
either.'^ 

*'  I  know  that;  but  you  burn  all  up,  and  look  like  a  fright.'' 

"Well,  if  I  did  ti't,  I  should  n't  go  there  to  sit;  I  like  to  be 
at  the  front  of  the  house,  where  I  can  see  the  passing.  I  wonder 
who  those  people  are,  coming  up  the  road ;  I 've  been  watching 
them  for  some  time." 

Kitty  stood  up,  and  looked  in  the  direction  to  which  Belie 
pointed.  After  observing  the  couple  who  were  approaching  for  a 
minute  or  two,  she  exclaimed,  Why,  that's  Gertrude  Flint!  I 
wonder  where  she 's  been  !  and  who  can  that  be  with  her  ?  I 
did  n't  know  there  was  a  beau  to  be  had  about  here." 
Beau  !  "  said  Belle,  sueeringly. 

*'  And  why  not  a  beau,  Cousin  Belle  !  I 'm  sure  he  looks  like 
'one." 

I  would  n't  give  much  for  any  of  her  beaux  !  "  said  Belle. 

Would  n't  you  ?  "  said  Kitty.  "  You 'd  better  wait  until  you 
see  who  they  are ;  you  near-sighted  people  should  n^t  decide  in 
such  a  hurry.  I  can  tell  you  that  he  is  a  gentleman  you  would  n't 
object  to  walking  with  yourself;  it 's  Mr.  Bmce,  the  one  we  met 
in  New  Orleans." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  I  "  exclaimed  Belle,  starting  up. 

You  will  soon  have  a  chance  to  see  for  yourself;  for  he  ifl 
coming  home  with  her." 

*'  He  is?  —  What  can  he  be  walking  with  her  for  ?  " 

To  show  his  taste,  perhaps.  I  am  sure  he  could  not  find  moro 
agreeable  company." 

You  and  I  don't  agree  about  that,"  replied  Belle.  ^*  I  don't 
gee  anything  very  agreeable  about  her." 

**  Because  you  are  determined  not  to,  Belle.  Everybody  else 
thinks  her  charming,  and  Mr.  Bruce  is  opening  the  gate  for  her 
fts  politely  as  if  she  were  a  queen  ;  I  like  him  for  that." 

Do  see,"  said  Belle  ;     she 's  got  on  that  white  cape-bonnei 


♦  240 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


of  hers !  and  that  checked  gingham  dress  !  I  wonder  what  Mr. 
Bruce  thinks  of  her,  and  he  such  a  critic  in  regard  to  ladies' 
dress." 

Gertrude  and  her  companion  now  drew  near  the  house  ;  the 
former  looked  up,  saw  the  young  ladies  in  the  door-way,  and 
smiled  pleasantly  at  Kitty,  who  was  making  strange  grimaces, 
and  giving  significant  glances,  over  Belle's  shoulder ;  but  Mr 
Bruce,  who  seemed  much  engaged  by  the  society  he  was  already 
enjoying,  did  not  observe  either  of  them ;  and  they  distinctly 
heard  him  say,  as  he  handed  Grertrude  a  small  parcel  he  had  been 
carrying  tor  her,  "  I  believe  T  won't  come  in ;  it 's  such  a  bore  to 
have  to  talk  to  strangers.  Do  you  work  in  the  garden,  morn* 
ings,  this  summer?  " 

*'No,"  replied  Gertrude,  there  is  nothing  left  of  my  garden 
but  the  memory  of  it." 

Why,  Miss' Gertrude  !  "  said  the  young  man,  T  hope  these 
new  comers  have  n't  interfered  with  —  "  Here  observing  the  direc- 
tion of  Gertrude's  eyes,  he  raised  his  own,  saw  Belle  and  Kitty 
standing  opposite  to  him,  and,  compelled  now  to  recognize  and 
speak  with  them,  went  forward  to  shake  hands,  trusting  to  his 
remarks  about  strangers  in  general,  and  these  new  comers  in  pa> 
ticular,  not  having  been  overheard. 

Although  overheard,  the  young  ladies  chose  to  take  no  noticv3 
of  that  which  they  supposed  intended  for  unknown  individuals. 

They  were  mistaken,  however;  Mr.  Bruce  knew  perfectly  well, 
that  the  nieces  of  the  present  Mrs.  Graham  were  the  same  girls 
whom  he  had  met  at  the  south,  and  was,  neverthebss,  indifferent 
about  renewing  his  acquaintance.  His  vanity,  however,  was  not 
proof  against  the  evident  pleasure  they  both  manifested  at  seeing 
him  again,  and  he  was  in  a  few  minutes  engaged  in  an  animated 
conversation  with  them,  while  Gertrude  quietly  entered  the  house, 
and  went  up  stairs  unnoticed.  She  sought  Emily's  room,  to  which 
she  had  aVays  free  access,  and  was  giving  an  account  of  her 
morning's  expedition  to  the  village,  and  the  successful  manner  in 
which  she  had  accomplished  various  commissions  and  errands, 
when  Mrs.  Ellis  put  her  head  in  at  the  door,  and  said,  with  a  most 
distressed  voice  and  countenance,    Has  n't  Gertrude?  —  0,  there 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


241 


you  are  !  Bo  tell  rae  what  Mrs.  Wilkias  said  about  the  straw 
berries." 

**  I  engaged  three  quarts  ;  has  n't  she  sent  them  ?  " 
No,  but  I 'm  thankfal  to  hear  they  're  coming ;  I  have  been 
BO  plagued  about  tbe  dinner." 

She  now  came  in,  shut  the  door,  and,  seating  herself,  exclaimed, 
with  something  like  a  groan,  I  declare,  Emily,  such  an  ironing 
as  our  girls  have  got  to  do  to-day  !  you  never  saw  anything  liko 
it !  There  's  no  end  to  the  fine  clothes  Mrs.  Graham  and  those 
nieces  of  hers  put  into  our  wash.  I  declare,  it 's  a  shame  !  Eich 
as  they  are,  they  might  put  out  their  washing.  I 've  been  help- 
ing, myself,  as  much  as  I  could ;  but,  as  Mrs.  Prime  says,  one 
can't  do  everything  at  once ;  and  I 've  had  to  see  the  butcher, 
make  puddings  and  blanc-mange,  and  been  worried  to  death,  all 
the  time  because  I  had  forgotten  to  engage  those  strawberries. 
So  Mrs.  Wilkins  had  n't  sent  her  fruit  to  mark«  when  you  got 
there?" 

No,  but  she  was  in  a  great  hurry,  getting  it  ready ;  it  would 
have  been  gone  in  a  very  short  time." 

**Well,  that  was  lucky.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
done  without  the  berries,  for  I 've  no  time  to  hunt  up  anything 
else  for  dessert.  I 've  got  just  as  much  as  I  can  do  till  dinner- 
time. Mrs.  Graham  never  kept  house  before,  and  don't  know  how 
to  make  allowance  for  anything.  She  comes  home  from  Boston, 
expects  to  find  everything  in  apple-pie  order,  and  never  asks  or 
cares  who  does  the  work." 

Mrs.  Prime's  voice  was  now  heard,  calling  at  the  back-stair- 
case,—Mrs.  Ellis,  Miss  Wilkins'  boy  has  fetched  your  straw- 
berries, and  the  hulls  an't  oflf  o'  one  on  'em ;  he  said  they  had  n't 
na  time." 

That's  too  bad  !  "  exclaimed  the  tired,  worried  housekeeper. 
Who 's  going  to  take  the  hulls  off.  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Katj 
is  busy  enough,  and  I 'm  sure  I  can't  do  it." 

**I  will,  Mrs.  Ellis,  — let  me  do  it,"  said  Gertrude,  following 
Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  now  half-way  down  stairs. 

•*  No,  no  !  don't  you  touch  to.  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Prime  i 
'*  they  'U  only  stain  your  fingers  all  up." 
21 


212 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


No  matter  if  they  do  ;  ray  hands  are  not  made  of  vihlte  ki»l 
They  '11  bear  washing." 

Mrs.  Ellis  was  only  too  thankful  for  Gertrude's  help,  and,  seat- 
ing  herself  in  the  dining-room,  she  commenced  the  task.  In  the 
mean  while,  Belle  and  Kitty  were  doing  their  best  to  entertain 
Mr.  Bruce,  who,  sitting  on  the  door-steps,  and  leaning  back  against 
a  pillar  of  the  piazza,  from  time  to  time  cast  his  eyes  down  the 
entry,  and  up  the  staircase,  in  hopes  of  Gertrude's  re-appearance  ; 
and,  despairing  of  it  at  last,  he  was  on  the  point  of  taking  his 
departure,  when  his  sister  Fanny  came  in  at  the  gate,  and,  running 
up  the  yard,  was  rushing  past  the  assembled  trio  and  into  the 
house. 

Her  brother,  however,  stretched  out  his  arm,  caught  her,  and 
before  he  let  her  go,  whispered  something  in  her  ear. 

Who  is  that  wild  Indian?  "  asked  Kitty  Ray,  as  Fanny  ran 
across  the  entry ^nd  disappeared. 

A  sister  of  mine,"  answered  Ben,  in  a  nonchalant  manner. 

Why  !  is  she  ?  "  inquired  Kitty,  with  interest ;  I  have  seen 
her  here  several  times,  and  never  took  any  notice  of  her.  ^  i 
did  n't  know  she  was  y<mr  sister.    What  a  pretty  girl  she  is !  " 

Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Ben ;  sorry  I  can't  agree  with  you. 
I  think  she 's  a  fright." 

Fanny  now  re-appeared,  and,  stopping  a  moment  on  her  way  up 
stairs,  called  out,  without  any  ceremony,  She  says  she  can't  come, 
she's  busy." 

Who?  "  asked  Kitty,  in  her  turn  catching  Fanny  and  dctain> 
ing  her. 

Miss  Flint." 

Mr.  Bruce  colored  slightly,  and  Belle  Clinton  observed  it. 
What  is  she  doing?  "  inquired  Kitty. 
Hulling  strawberries." 

Where  are  you  going,  Fanny  ?  "  asked  her  brother. 
''Upstairs." 

**  Do  they  let  you  go  all  over  the  house  ?  " 

Miss  Flint  said  I  might  go  up  and  bring  down  the  birds.'' 
"What  birds?'' 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


243 


'*  Her  birds ;  I  am  going  to  hang  tliem  in  the  sun,  and  then 
they  *11  sing  beautifull}^" 

She  ran  off,  and  soon  came  back  again  with  a  cage  in  her  hand, 
containing  the  httle  monias,  sent  by  Willie  from  Calcutta. 

**  There,  Kitty,"  cried  Belle ;  I  think  those  are  the  birds  that 
■wake  us  up  so  early  every  morning  with  their  noise." 

*'Very  likely,"  said  Kitty;  bring  them  here,  will  you, 
Fanny  ?  I  want  to  see  them.  —  Goodness  !  "  continued  she,  what 
little  creatures  they  are!  —  do  look  at  them,  Mr.  Bruce,  —  they 
are  sweet  pretty." 

Put  them  down  on  the  door-step,  Fanny,"  said  Ben,  so  that 
ve  can  see  them  better." 

I 'm  afraid  you  '11  frighten  them,"  replied  Fanny ;  Miss  Ger- 
trude does  n't  like  to  have  them  frightened." 

No,  we  won't,"  said  Ben;  *' we  are  disjDpsed  to  be  veiy 
friendly  to  Miss  Gertrude's  birds.  Where  did  she  get  them,  —  do 
you  know,  Fanny?  " 

'*  Why,  they  are  India  birds  ;  Mr.  Sullivan  sent  them  to  her." 

''Who  is  he?" 

"  0,  he  is  a  very  particular  friend ;  she  has  letters  from  him 
every  little  while." 

*'What  Mr.  Sullivan  ?  "  asked  Belle.  *'Do  you  know  his 
Christian  name  ?  " 

I  suppose  it 's  William,"  said  Fanny.  Miss  Emily  always 
calls  the  birds  little  Willies." 

Belle  !  "  exclaimed  Kitty,     that 's  your  William  Sullivan  !  " 
What  a  favored  man  he  seems  to  be  !  "  said  Mr.  Bruce,  in  a 
tone  of  sarcasm;  **  the  property  of  one  beautiful  lady,  and  the 
particular  friend  of  another." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Kitty,"  said  Belle,  tartly. 

Mr.  Sullivan  is  a  junior  partner  of  my  father's,  but  I  have  not 
seen  him  for  years." 

**  Except  in  your  dreams.  Belle,"  suggested  Kitty.  You 
fcrget." 

Belle  now  looked  angry. 

**Do  you  dream  about  Mr.  Sullivan?"  asked  Fanny^  Sxing 


244 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


her  eyes  on  Belle  as  slie  spoke.         mean  to  go  and  ask  Misa 
Gertrude  if  she  does." 
.    -  Do,''  said  Kitty  ;     I  '11  go  with  you." 

They  ran  across  the  entry,  opened  the  door  into  the  dining-room, 
md  both  put  the  question  to  her  at  the  same  moment. 

Taken  thus  by  surprise,  Gertrude  neither  blushed  nor  looked 
confused,  but  answered,  quietly,  "  Yes,  sometimes ;  but  what  do 
you,  either  of  you,  know  of  Mr.  Sullivan  ;  —  why  do  you  ask  !  " 

0,  nothing,"  answered  Kitty;  ^'  only  sovie  others  do,  and  we 
are  inquiring  round  to  see  how  many  there  are  ;  "  and  she  shut 
tlie  door  and  ran  back  in  triumph,  to  tell  Belle  she  might  as  well 
be  frank,  like  Gertrude,  and  plead  guilty  to  the  weakness :  it 
looked  so  much  better  than  blushing  and  denying  it. 

But  it  would  not  do  to  joke  with  Belle  any  longer;  she  was 
seriously  ofFended,  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  Mr. 
Bruce  felt  awkward  and  annoyed,  and  soon  went  away,  leaving  the 
two  cousins  to  settle  their  difficulty  as  they  best  could.  As  soon 
as  he  had  gone,  Belle  folded  up  her  work,  and  walked  up  stairs  to 
her  room  with  great  dignity,  while  Kitty  staid  behind  to  laugh 
over  the  matter,  and  improve  her  opportunity  to  make  friends  with 
Fanny  Bruce ;  for  Kitty  was  not  a  little  interested  in  the  brother, 
and  labored  under  the  common,  but  often  mistaken  idea,  that  in 
cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  the  sister  she  should  advance  her 
cause.  Perhaps  she  was  somewhat  induced  to  this  step  by  her 
having  observed  that  Gertrude  appeared  to  be  an  equal  favorite 
with  both. 

She  therefore  called  Fanny  to  sit  beside  her,  put  her  arm  round 
her  waist,  and  commenced  talking  about  Gertrude,  and  the  origin 
and  extent  of  the  intunacy  which  seemed  to  exist  between  her  and 
the  Bruce  family. 

Fanny,  who  was  always  communicative,  willingly  informed  hor 
of  the  circumstances  which  had  attached  her  so  strongly  to  a  friend 
who  was  some  years  her  senior. 

And  your  brother,"  said  Kitty;  ''he  has  known  her  soms 
time,  has  n't  he?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Fanny,  carelessly. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEE. 


245 


Does  lie  like  her?'* 

I  don't  know  ;  I  should  think  ho  would;  I  dor/t  see  how  he 
ran  help  it." 

What  did  he  whisper  to  you,  when  you  came  up  the  steps  ?  " 
Fanny  could  not  remember  at  once ;  but,  on  being  reminded  of 
the  answer  she  had  given,  sbe  replied,  promptly, 

0,  he  bade  me  ask  Miss  Gertrude  if  she  was  n't  coming  back 
to  see  him  again,  and  tell  her  he  was  tired  to  death  waiting  for 
her." 

Kitty  pouted  and  looked  vexed.  I  want  to  know,"  said  she, 
**if  Miss  Flint  has  been  in  tbe  habit  of  receiving  company  here, 
and  being  treated  like  an  equal?  " 

Of  course  she  bas,"  answered  Fanny,  with  spirit;  why 
shouldn't  she?  She's  the  most  perfect  lady  I  ever  saw,  and 
mother  says  she  has  beautiful  manners,  and  I  must  take  pattern  by 
her." 

"0,  Miss  Gertrude,"  called  she,  as  Gertrude,  who  had  been  to 
place  the  strawberries  in  the  refrigerator,  crossed  the  back  part  of 
the  long  entry,     arc  you  ready  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  Fanny,  I  shall  be  in  a  moment,"  answered  Gertrude. 

*'  Eeady  for  what?  "  inquired  Kitty. 
To  read,"  said  Fanny.  She  is  going  to  read  the  rest  o' 
Hamlet  to  Miss  Emily  ;  she  read  the  fiirst  three  acts  yesterday, 
and  Miss  Emily  let  me  sit  in  her  room  and  hear  it.  I  can't 
understand  it,  when  I  read  it  mvself ;  but  when  I  listen  to  Miss 
Gertrude,  it  seems  quite  plair..  She 's  a  splendid  reader,  and  T 
came  in  to-day  on  purpose  to  hear  the  play  finished." 

Kitty's  last  companion  having  deserted  her,  she  stretched  her- 
Bclf  on  the  entry  sofa  and  fell  asleep.  She  was  wakened  by  her 
aunt,  who  returned  from  the  city  a  short  time  before  dinner,  and, 
finding  her  asleep  in  her  morning  wrapper,  shook  her  by  the  arm, 
and  said,  in  a  voice  which  the  best  intentions  could  never  render 
otherwise  than  loud  and  coarse,  Kitty  Ray,  wake  up  and  go  dress 
foi  dinner !  I  saw  Belle  at  the  chamber-window,  looking  like  a 
beauty.  I  wish  you 'd  take  half  the  pauis  she  does  to  ioiproTS 
your  appearance.*' 

21* 


246 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Kitty  yawned,  and,  after  delaying  as  long  as  she  chose,  finally 
followed  Mrs.  Graham's  directions.  It  was  Kitty's  policy,  after 
giving  offence  (o  her  cousin  Belle,  to  appear  utterly  unconscious  of 
the  existence  of  any  unkind  feelings ;  and,  though  Belle  often 
manifested  some  degree  of  sulkiness,  she  was  too  depcadent  upon 
Kitty's  society  to  retain  that  disposition  long.  They  were  soon, 
therefore,  chatting  together  as  usual. 

"  Belle,"  said  Kitty,  as  she  stood  arranging  her  hair  at  the  glass^ 

do  you  remember  a  girl  we  used  to  meet  every  morning,  on  our 
way  to  school,  walking  with  a  paralytic  old  man  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  I  think  it  was  Gertrude  Flint?  She  has  altered 
very  much,  to  be  sure  ;  but  the  features  are  still  the  same,  and 
there  certainly  never  was  but  one  such  pair  of  eyes." 

I  have  no  doubt  she  is  the  same  person,"  said  Belle,  com- 
posedly, 

"  Did  you  think  of  it  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  Fanny  spoke  of  her  knowing  Willie  Sullivan." 
"  Why,  Belle,  why  did  n't  you  speak  of  it  ?  " 
"  Lor',  Kitty,  I  don't  feel  so  much  interest  in  her  as  you  and 
some  others  do." 
"  What  others  ?  " 

It  was  now  Belle's  turn  to  be  provoking. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Bruce  ;  don't  you  see  he  is  half  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  see  any  such  thing;  he  has  known  her  for  a 
long  time  (Fanny  says  so),  and,  of  course,  he  feels  a  regard 
and '  respect  for  a  girl  that  the  Grahams  make  so  much  account 
of.  But  I  don't  believe  he 'd  think  of  such  a  thino:  as  beino' 
in  love  with  a  poor  girl  like  her,  with  no  family  connections  to 
boast  of." 

Perhaps  he  did  n't  thin/t  of  being." 

Well,  he  would  n't  be.    She  is  n't  the  sort  of  a  person  that 
would  suit  him.    He  has  been  in  society  a  great  deal,  not  only  at 
home,  out  in  Paris ;  and  he  would  want  a  wife  that  was  very  lively 
ftnd  fond  of  company,  and  knew  how  to  make  a  show  with  money." 
"  A  girl,  fur  instance,  like  Kitty  Bay." 
How  ridiculous,  Belle  !  just  as  if  people  could  n't  talk  with* 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


247 


out  tliinldng  of  themselves  all  the  time  !  What  do  I  care  about 
Ben  Bruce?'' 

**I  don't  know  that  you  care  anything  about  him;  but  I 
vrould  n't  pull  all  the  hair  out  of  my  head  about  it,  as  jou.  seem 
to  be  doing.  There's  the  dianer-bell,  and  jou'll  be  late,  as 
usual." 


CHAPTER  XXVIIl. 


She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 

A  simple  truthfuhicss,  and  these  have  lent  her 

A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre. 

Lowell. 

Twilight  of  this  same  day  fouDcl  Gertrude  and  Emi.'y  seated  at 
a  window  which  commanded  a  delightful  western  view.  Gertrudo 
had  been  describing  to  her  blind  friend  the  gorgeous  picture  pre- 
sented to  her  vision  by  the  masses  of  rich  and  brilliantly-painted 
cloud;  and  Emily,  as  she  listened  to  tho  glowing  description  of 
nature,  as  she  unfolded  herself  at  an  hour  which  they  both  pre- 
ferred to  all  others,  experienced  a  participation  in  Gertrude's  en- 
joyment. The  glory  had  now  hded  away,  save  a  long  strip  of 
gold  which  skirted  the  horizon  ;  and  the  stars,  as  they  came  out,^ 
one  by  one,  seemed  to  look  io  at  the  chamber-window  with  a  smile 
of  recognition. 

In  the  parlor  below  there  was  company  from  the  city,  and  the 
Bound  of  mirth  and  laughter  came  up  on  the  evening  breeze ;  so 
mellowed,  however,  by  distance,  that  it  contrasted  with  the  peace 
pf  the  quiet  room,  without  disturbing  it. 

"You  had  better  go  down,  Gertrude,"  said  Emily;  they 
appear  to  be  enjoying  themselves,  and  I  love  to  hear  your  k:igh 
mingling  with  the  rest." 

0,  no,  dear  E  nily  !  "  said  Gertrude ;  *'  I  prefer  to  stoy  with 
yo'i  ;  thoy  arc  nearly  all  strangers  to  me." 

'•'  As  you  please,  my  dear ;  but  don't  let  mo  keep  you  from 
the  young  people.'' 

'*  You  can  never  keep  me  with  you,  dear  Emily,  longer  than  T 
wish  to  stay;  there  is  no  society  I  love  so  well."  And  so  she 
Btaid,  and    they  resumed   their  pleasant  conversation^  which, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


249 


thongli  harmonious  and  calm,  was  not  without  its  plajfuhiess  and 
occasional  gleams  of  wit. 

They  were  interrupted  by  Katy,  whom  Mrs.  (rraham  sent  to 
announce  a  new  visitor,  —  Mrs.  Bruce,  —  who  had  inquired  for 
Emily. 

"I  suppose  I  must  go  down,"  said  Emily ;  you  '11  Gome  too, 
Gertrude?" 

*•  No,  I  believe  not,  unless  she  asked  for  me.    Did  she,  Katy  ?  " 
Mrs.  Graham  was  only  afther  mintioning  Miss  Emily,"  sail] 
Katy. 

Th^n  I  will  stay  here,"  said  Gertrude  ;  and  Emily,  finding  it 
to  be  her  wish,  went  without  her. 

There  was  soon  another  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  reception  evening,  and  this  time  Gertrude's  presence  waa 
particularly  requested,  to  sec  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

When  she  entered  the  parlor,  she  found  a  great  number  of 
guests  assembled,  and  every  seat  in  the  room  occupied.  As  she 
came  in  alone,  and  unexpected  by  the  greater  part  of  the  com- 
pany, all  eyes  were  turned  upon  her.  Contrary  to  the  expecta- 
tion of  Belle  and  Kitty,  who  were  watching  her  with  curiosity, 
she  manifested  neither  embarrassment  nor  awkwardness ;  but, 
glanci.ig  leisurely  at  the  various  groups,  until  she  recognized  Mrs. 
Jeremy,  crossed  the  large  saloon  with  characteristic  grace,  and  as 
much  ease  and  self-possession  as  if  she  were  the  only  person  pre&« 
ent.  After  greeting  that  lady  with  her  usual  warmth  and  cordial- 
ity, she  turned  to  speak  to  the  doctor ;  but  he  was  sitting  next 
Fanny  Bruce  in  the  window-seat,  and  was  half  concealed  by  the 
curtain.  Before  he  could  rise  and  come  forward,  Mrs.  Bruce 
nodded  pleasantly  from  the  opposite  corner,  and  Gertrude  went 
to  shake  hands  with  her ;  Mr.  Bruce,  who  formed  one  in  a  gay 
circle  of  young  ladies  and  gentlem.en  collected  in  that  part  of  the 
room,  and  who  had  been  observing  Gertrude's  motions  so  atten- 
tively as  to  make  no  reply  to  a  question  put  to  him  by  Kitty  Hay, 
DOW  rose  and  ojffered  his  chair,  siiying,  Miss  Gertrude,  do  take 
this  seat." 

'*  Thank  you,"  said  Gertrude,    but  I  see  my  friend  doctor. 


250 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


on  tlie  other  sido  of  the  room  ;  he  expects  me  to  come  and  speak 
to  hiin,  — so  don't  let  me  disturb  you.'' 

Dr.  Jeremy  now  came  haU^-way  across  the  room  to  meet  her, 
and,  taking  her  by  both  hands,  led  her  into  the  recess  formed  by 
the  window,  and  placed  her  in  his  own  seat,  next  to  Fanny  Bruce. 
To  the  astonishment  of  all  who  knew  him,  Ben  Bruce  brought  his 
own  chair  and  placed  it  for  the  doctor  opposite  to  Gertrude.  So 
much  respect  for  age  had  not  been  anticipated  from  tho  modern- 
bred  man  of  fashion. 

Is  that  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Graham  ?  "  asked  a  young  lady  of 
Belle  Clinton,  who  sat  next  her. 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Belle;  she  is  a  person  to  whom  Miss 
Graham  gave  an  education,  and  new  she  lives  here  to  read  to  her, 
and  be  a  sort  of  companion  ;  her  name  is  Flint." 

''What  did  you  say  that  young  lady's  name  was?"  asked  a 
dashing  lieutenant,  leaning  forward  and  addressing  Isabel. 

'^Miss  Flint." 

"  Flint,  ah  !  she 's  a  genteel-looking  girl.  How  peculiarly  she 
dresses  her  hair  !  " 

"Very  becoming,  however,  to  that  style  of  face,"  remarked  the 
young  lady  who  had  first  spoken.       Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  lieutenant;  "  something  becomes 
her;  she  makes  a  fine  appearance.  Bruce,"  said  he,  as  Mr. 
Bruce  returned,  after  his  unusual  effort  at  politeness,  ''who  is 
that  Miss  Flint  ?  —  I  have  been  here  two  or  three  times,  and  I 
never  saw  her  before." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Mr.  Bruce  ;  "  she  won't  always  show  her- 
self.   Is  n't  she  a  fine-looking  girl  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  yet ;  she 's  got  a  splendid  figure, 
but  who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She 's  a  sort  of  adopted  daughter  of  Mr.  Graham's,  I  believe ; 
H  protegee  of  Miss  Emily's." 

"  Ah  !  poor  thing  !    An  orphan  ?  " 

"Yes,  1  suppose  so,"  said  Ben,  biting  his  lip. 

"  P-tv  '  "  said  the  young  man;  "  poor  thing  !  but,  as  you  say, 
i3en,  she 's  good-looking,  particularly  when  she  smiles ;  there  is 
something  very  attractive  about  her  face." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


251 


Thero  certainly  was  to  Ben,  for,  a  moment  afte^,  Kitty  Ray 
missed  him  from  the  room,  and  immediately  espied  him  standing 
on  the  piazza,  and  leaning  through  the  open  window  to  talk  with 
Gertrude,  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  Fanny.  The  conversation  soon  became 
very  lively;  tbere  seemed  to  be  a  war  of  wits  going  on;  the 
doctor,  especially,  laughed  very  loud,  and  Gertrude  and  Fanny 
often  joined  in  the  merry  peal.  Kitty  endured  it  as  long  as  she 
could;  and  then  ran  boldly  across  to  join  the  party,  and  hea'? 
what  they  were  having  so  much  fun  about. 

But  it  was  all  an  enigma  to  Kitty.  Dr.  Jeremy  was  talking 
with  Mr.  Bruce  concerning  something  which  had  happened  many 
years  ago;  thero  was  a  great  deal  about  a  fooFs  cap,  with  a  long 
tassel,  and  taking  afternoon  naps  in  the  grass  ;  the  doctor  was 
making  queer  allusions  to  some  old  pear-tree,  and  traps  set  for 
thieves,  and  kept  reminding  Gertrude  of  circumstances  which 
attended  their  first  acquaintance  with  each  other  and  with  Mr. 
Bruce. 

Kitty  was  beginning  to  feel  that,  as  she  was  uninitiated  in  all 
they  were  talking  about,  she  had  placed  herself  in  the  position  of 
an  intruder,  and  was  thereupon  looking  a  little  embarrassed  and 
ill  at  ease,  when  Gertrude  touched  her  arm,  and,  kindly  making 
room  for  her  next  herself,  motioned  to  her  to  sit  down,  saying,  as 
she  did  so,  Dr.  Jeremy  is  speaking  of  the  time  when  he  (or  he 
and  J,  as  he  chooses  to  have  it)  went  fruit-stealing  in  Mrs. 
Bruce's  orchard,  and  were  unexpectedly  discovered  by  Mr. 
Bruce." 

You  mean,  my  dear,"  interrupted  the  doctor,  that  Mr. 
Bruce  was  discovered  by  us.  Why,  it 's  my  opinion  he  would  have 
ilept  until  this  time  if  I  had  n't  given  him  such  a  thorough 
waking  up  !  " 

*'  My  first  acquaintance  with  you  was  certainly  the  greatest 
awakening  of  my  life,"  said  Ben,  speaking  as  if  to  the  doctor, 
but  looking  meaningly  at  Gertrude;  *'that  was  not  the  only  nap 
it  cost  me.  How  sorry  I  am,  Miss  Gertrude,  that  you 've  given 
up  working  In  the  garden,  as  you  used  to  !  Pray,  how  does  it 
happen  ? 

**Mrs.  Graham  has  had  it  remodelled,"  replied  Gertrude,  '  ^n.d 


252 


Tllli  LAjiPLIGHTER. 


tbe  new  gardener  neither  needs  nor  desires  my  services.  He  haa 
his  own  plans,  and  it  is  not  well  to  interfere  with  the  professor 
of  an  art ;  I  should  be  sure  to  do  mischief.'' 

I  doubt  whether  his  success  compares  with  yours,"  said  Ben. 
I  do  not  see  anjth'ng  like  the  same  quantity  of  flowers  in  tho 
room  that  you  used  to  have.'' 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Gertrude,  that  he  is  as  fond  of  cutting 
them  as  I  was.  I  did  not  care  so  much  for  the  appearance  of  the 
garden  as  for  having  plenty  of  flowers  in  the  house  ;  but  with  him 
it  is  the  reverse." 

Kitty  now  addressed  some  remark  to  Mr.  Bruce  on  the  sub- 
ject of  gardening,  and  Gertrude,  turning  to  Dr.  Jeremy,  con- 
tinued in  earnest  conversation  with  him,  until  Mrs.  Jeremy  roso 
to  go,  when,  approaching  the  window,  she  said,  Dr.  Jerry,  have 
you  given  Gertrude  her  letter  ?  " 

Goodness  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  I  came  near  forgetting 
It."  Then,  feeling  in  his  pocket,  ho  drew  forth  an  evidently  foreign 
document,  tha  envelope  literally  covered  with  various-colored 
post-office  stamps.  *' See  here,  Gcrty,  genuine  Calcutta;  no 
mistake  ! " 

Gertrude  took  the  letter,  and,  as  she  thanked  the  doctor,  hei 
countenance  expressed  pleasure  at  receiving  it;  a  pleasure,  how- 
ever, somewhat  tempered  by  sadness,  for  she  had  heard  from 
Willie  but  once  since  he  learned  the  news  of  his  mother's  death, 
and  that  letter  had  been  such  an  outpouring  of  his  vehement  ^ 
grief  that  the  sight  of  his  hand-writing  almost  pained  her,  as  sho 
anticipated  something  like  a  repetition  of  tho  outburst. 

Mr.  Bruce  who  kept  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  half  expected  to 
^ee  her  change  color,  and  look  disconcerted,  on  the  letter  being 
handed  to  her  in  the  presence  of  so  many  witnesses,  was  re-assured 
by  the  composure  with  which  she  took  it,  and  held  it  openly  in 
her  band  while  she  bade  the  doctor  and  his  wife  good-evening. 
Rho  followed  theai  to  the  door,  and  was  then  retreating  to  her 
own  apartment,  when  she  was  met  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  h^^ 
Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  noticed  the  movement,  and  now  entered 
^"om  the  piazza  in  time  to  arrest  her  steps,  and  ask  if  her  lettei 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


253 


of  such  importance  that  she  must  deny  the  com  pan  j  tho 
pleasure  of  her  society  in  order  to  study  its  contents. 

•  It  is  from  a  friend  of  whose  welflire  I  am  anxious  to  hear.' 
said  Gertrude,  gravely.  "  Please  excuse  me  to  your  mother,  if 
she  inquires  for  me;  and,  as  the  rest  of  the  guests  are  strangers, 
I  shall  not  be  missed  by  them." 

0,  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Mr.  Bruce,  "  it 's  no  use  comir.r; 
here  to  see  you,  you  are  so  frequently  invisible.  What  part  of 
the  day  is  one  most  likely  to  find  you  disengaged  ?  " 

"  Hardly  any  part,"  said  Gertrude.  I  am  always  a  very  busy 
character;  but  good-night,  Mr.  Bruce,  — don't  let  me  detain  you 
from  the  other  young  ladies;"  and  Gertrude  ran  up  stairs, 
leaving  Mr.  Bruce  uncertain  whether  to  be  vexed  with  himself  or 
her. 

^  Contrarj  to  Gerty's  expectations,  her  letter  from  William  Sul- 
livan  proved  very  soothing  to  the  grief  she  had  felt  on  his 
account.  His  spirit  had  been  so  weighed  down  and  crushed  by 
the  intelligence  of  the  death  of  his  grandflither,  and  finally  of  hia 
second  and  still  greater  loss,  that  his  first  commanication  to  Ger- 
trude had  alarmed  her,  from  the  discouraged,  disheartened  tone 
in  which  it  was  written  ;  she  had  feared  lest  his  Christian  forti- 
tude would  give  way  to  the  force  of  this  double  affliction. 

She  was,  therefore,  much  relieved  to  find  that'he  now  wrote  in 
a  calmer  strain;  that  he  had  taken  to  heart  his  mother's  last 
entreaty  and  prayer  for  a  submissive  disposition  on  his  part; 
and  that,  although  deeply  amicted,  he  ^as  schooling  himself  to 
patience  and  resignation.  But  he  did  not,  in  thisletter,  dwell 
long  upon  his  own  sufferings  under  bei-eavement. 

The  three  closely-written  pages  were  almost  wholly  devoted  to 
fervent  and  earnest  expressions  of  gratitude  to  Gertrude  for  the 
active  kindness  and  love  which  had  cheered  and  comforted  the 
last  days  of  his  much-regretted  friends.  He  prayed  that  Heaven 
would  bless  her,  and  reward  her  disinterested  and  sell-denyina 
efforts,  and  closed  with  saying,  "  You  are  all  there  is  left  tome, 
Gertrude.  If  I  loved  you  before  my  heart  is  now  bound  to  you 
bj  ties  stronger  than  those  of  earfi ;  icy  hopes,  mj  labors,  wy 
22 


254 


THE  LAMPLIGHTBE. 


prajers,  are  all  for  jou.  God  grant  we  maj  seme  day  jntti 
again  ! 

For  an  hour  after  sbe  had  finished  reading,  Gertr-idc  sat  lost, 
in  meditation  ;  her  thoughts  went  back  to  her  home  at  Unohf 
True's,  and  the  days  when  she  and  Willie  passed  so  manj  happy 
hours  in  close  companionship,  little  dreaming  of  the  long  sepa^ 
ration  so  soon  to  ensue.  She  rehearsed,  in  her  mind,  all  the  suc- 
ceeding events  which  had  brought  her  into  her  present  position, 
and  was  only  startled  at  last  from  the  revery  she  was  indulging 
in  by  the  voices  of  Mrs.  Graham's  visitors,  who  were  now  taking 
leave. 

Mrs.  Bruce  and  her  son  lino-ered  a  little,  until  the  carriao-es 
\iad  driven  off  with  those  of  the  guests  who  were  to  return  to  the 
«3ity,  and,  as  they  were  making  their  farewells  on  the  door-step, 
directly  beneath  Gertrude's  window,  she  heard  Mrs.  Graham  say, 

Remember,  Mr.  Bruce,  we  dine  at  two;  and.  Miss  Fanny,  we 
shall  hope  to  see  you  also.  I  presume  you  will  join  the  walking 
party." 

This,  then,  was  an  arrangement  which  was  to  bring  Mr.  Bruco 
there  to  dinner,  at  no  very  distant  period;  and  Gertrude's  reflec- 
tions, forsaking  the  past,  began  to  centre  upon  the  present. 

Mr.  Bruce's  attentions  to  her  had  that  day  been  marked  ;  and 
the  professions  of  admiration  he  had  contrived  to  whisper  in  her 
ear  had  been  still  more  so.  Both  these  attentions  and  this 
admiration  were  unsought  and  un desired ;  neither  were  they  in 
any  degree  flattering  to  the  high-minded  girl,  who  was  superior  to 
coquetry,  and  whose  self-respect  was  even  wounded  by  the  confi- 
dent and  assured  manner  in  which  Mr.  Bruce  made  his  advances 
As  a  youth  of  seventeen,  she  had  marked  him  as  indolent  and 
ill-bred.  Her  sense  of  justice,  however,  would  have  obliterated 
this  recollection,  had  his  character  and  manners  appeared  changed 
on  the  renewal  of  their  acquaintance,  some  years  after.  This 
was  not  the  case,  however,  for  the  outward  polish,  bestowed  by 
fashion  and  familiarity  with  society,  could  not  cloud  Gertrude's 
discernment;  and  she  quickly  perceived  that  his  old  character* 
istics  still  remained,  heightened  and  rendered  more  glaring  by  aD 
ill-concealed  vanity.    As  a  boy,  he  had  st:^red  at  Gertrude  from 


TUE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


255 


fEipixc^ciftc-e,  and  inqmred  her  name  out  of  idle  curiosity;  as  a 
youthful  coxcomb,  he  had  resolved  to  flirt  with  her,  because  his 
time  hung  heavy  on  his  hands,  and  he  could  think  of  nothing 
better  to  do  But,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  the  country  girl  (for 
such  he  considered  her,  never  having  seen  her  elsewhere)  wa.^ 
quite  insensible  to  the  flattery  and  notice  which  many  a  city 
belle  had  coveted;  appeared  wholly  indifl'erent  to  his  admiration ; 
and  that  when  he  tried  raillery  he  usually  proved  the  disconcerted 
party.  If  he  sought  her,  as  he  was  frequently  in  the  habit  of 
doing,  when  she  was  at  work  among  the  flowers,  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  distract  her  attention  from  her  labors,  or  detain  her 
after  they  were  completed  ;  if  he  joined  her  in  her  walks,  and, 
with  his  wonted  self-conceit,  made  her  aware  of  the  honor  he 
supposed  himself  conferring,  she  either  maintained  a  dignity 
which  warded  oif  his  fulsome  adulation,  or,  if  he  ventured  to 
make  her  the  object  of  direct  compliment,  received  it  as  a  jest, 
and  retorted  with  a  playfulness  and  wit  which  often  left  the 
opaque  wits  of  poor  Ben  in  some  doubt  whether  he  had  not  been 
making  himself  ridiculous  ;  and  this,  not  because  Gertrude  was 
willing  to  wound  the  feelings  of  one  who  was  disposed  to  admire 
her,  but  because  she  perceived  that  he  was  far  from  being  sincere, 
and  she  had  an  honorable  pride  which  would  not  endure  to  be 
trifled  with. 

It  was  something  new  to  Mr.  Bruce  to  fijid  any  lady  thus  in- 
diff'erent  to  his  merits ;  and  proved  such  an  awakening  to  his 
ambition,  that  he  resolved,  if  possible,  to  recommend  himself  to 
Gertrude,  and  consequently  improved  every  opportunity  of  gain- 
ing admittanoe  to  her  society. 

While  laboring,  however,  to  inspire  her  with  a  due  appreciation 
of  himself,  he  fell  into  his  own  snare;  for,  though  he  failed  in 
awakening  Gertrude^s  interest,  he  could  not  be  equally  insensible 
to  her  attractions.  Even  the  comparatively  duj  intellect  of  Ben 
B-uce  was  capable  of  measuring  her  vast  superiority  to  most 
girls  of  her  age,  and  her  vivacious  originality  was  a  contrast  \o 
the  msipidity  of  fashionable  life,  which  at  length  completely 
charmed  him. 

His  eariestnesa  and  perseverance  began  to  annoy  fctc  object 


266 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEH. 


of  hh  admiration  before  she  left  Mr.  Graham's  in  the  autumn, 
and  she  was  glad  soon  after  to  hear  that  he  had  acccmpanied  his 
mother  to  Washington,  as  it  insured  her  against  meeting  him  again 
for  months  to  come. 

Mr.  Bruce  regretted  losing  sight  of  Gertrude,  but  amid  the 
gajety  and  dissipation  of  southern  cities  contrived  to  waste 'his 
time  with  tolerable  satisfaction.  He  was  reminded  oi  her  again 
on  meeting  the  Graham  party  at  New  Orleans,  and  it  is  some 
credit  to  his  understanding  to  say,  that  in  the  comparison  which 
he  constantly  drew  between  her  and  the  vain  daughters  of 
fashion  she  stood  higher  than  ever  in  his  estimation.  He  did 
not  hesitate  to  tell  her  so  on  the  morning  already  mentioned, 
;vhen,  with  evident  satisfaction,  he  had  recognized  and  joined  her; 
and  the  increased  devotion  of  his  words  and  manner,  which  now 
took  a  tone  of  truth  in  which  they  had  before  been  wanting, 
alarm.ed  Gertrude,  and  led  to  a  serious  resolve  on  her  part  to 
avoid  him  on  all  possible  occasions.  It  will  soon  be  seen  how 
difficult  she  found  it  to  carry  out  this  resolution. 

On  the  day  succeeding  the  one  of  which  we  have  been  speak- 
ing, Mr.  Graham  returned  from  the  city  about  noon,  and,  joining 
the  young  ladies  in  the  entry,  unfolded  his  newspaper,  and,  hand- 
ing it  to  Kitty,  asked  her  to  read  the  news. 

"  What  phall  I  read  ? "  said  Kitty,  taking  the  paper  rather 
unwillingly. 

"  The  leading  article,  if  you  please." 

Kitty  turned  the  paper  inside  and  out,  looked  hastily  up  and 
down  its  pages,  and  then  declared  her  inability  to  find  it.  Mr. 
Graham  stared  at  her  in  astonishment,  then  pointed  in  silence  to 
the  wished-for  paragraph.  She  began,  but  had  scarcely  read  a 
sentence  before  Mr.  Graham  stopped  her,  saying,  impatiently, 

Don't  read  so  fast,  —  I  can't  hear  a  single  word  !  "  She  now 
fell  into  the  other  extreme,  and  drawled  so  into'ferably  that  her 
auditor  interrupted  her  again,  and  bade  her  give  the  paper  to  hei 
cjusin. 

Bel'e  took  it  from  the  pouting  Kitty,  and  finished  the  artic  e,— 
not,  however,  without  being  onco  or  twice  compelled  to  go  back 
and  read  more  intelligibly. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


257 


*•  Do  you  wish  to  hear  anything  more,  sir  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Yes ;  won't  you  turn  to  the  ship-news,  and  read  me  the  As:\ 
by  the  steamer." 

Beile,  more  fortunate  than  Kitty,  found  the  plane,  and  com- 
menced. "  *  At  Canton,  April  30th,  ship  Ann  Maria,  Kay, 
d  -  i  -  s  -  0  '  g.'  —  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  Discharging,  of  course  ;  go  on." 

"  '  S  - 1  -  d  —  a  -  b  - 1  18th,'  "  spelt  Belle,  looking  dreadfully 
puzzled  all  the  while. 

"  Stupid  !  "  muttered  Mr.  Graham,  almost  snatching  the  paper 
out  of  her  hands;  "  not  know  how  to  read  ship-news  !  Where 's 
Gertrude  ?  Where 's  Gertrude  Flint  ?  She 's  the  only  girl  1 
ever  saw  that  did  know  anything.  Won't  you  speak  to  her. 
Kitty  ? 

Kitty  went,  though  rather  reluctantly,  to  call  Gertrude,  and 
told  her  for  what  she  was  wanted.  Gertrude  wa.^  astonished  ; 
Bime  the  day  when  she  had  persisted  in  leaving  his  house,  Mr. 
Graham  had  never  asked  her  to  read  to  him ;  but,  obedient  to  the 
summons,  she  presented  herself,  and,  taking  the  seat  which  Belle 
had  vacated  near  the  door,  commenced  with  the  ship-news,  and, 
without  asking  any  questions,  turned  to  various  items  of  intelli- 
gence, taking  them  in  the  order  which  she  knew  Mr.  Graham 
preferred. 

The  old  gentleman,  leaning  back  in  his  easy-chair,  and  resting 
his  gouty  foot  upon  an  ottoman  opposite  to  him,  looked  amazingly 
contented  and  satisfied  ;  and  when  Belle  and  Kitty  had  gone  off 
to  their  room,  he  remarked,  "This  seems  like  old  times,  does  n'l 
it,  Gertrude  ?  "  He  now  closed  his  eyes,  and  Gertrude  was  soon 
made  aware,  by  his  deep  breathing,  that  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

Seeing  that,  as  he  sat,  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  pass 
without  waking  him,  she  laid  down  the  paper,  and  was  preparing 
to  draw  some  work  from  her  pocket  (for  Gertrude  seldom  spent 
her  time  in  idleness),  when  she  observed  a  shadow  in  the  door 
way,  and,  looking  up,  saw  the  very  person  whom  she  had  yestei 
day  resolved  to  avoid. 

Mr.  Bruce  was  staring  in  her  face,  with  an  indolent  air  of  ease 
and  confidence,  which  she  always  found  very  otfensive.    He  had 
22=^ 


258 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Ui  one  hanl  a  buncli  of  roses,  wliicli  he  held  up  to  her  admiring 
gnze, 

"  Yer}^  beautifu. !  "  said  Gertrude,  as  she  glanced  at  ihe  littlo 
branches,  covered  with  a  luxurious  growth  of  moss-rose  buds 
both  pink  and  white. 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  fearing  to  awaken  Mr.  Graham 
Mr.  Bruce,  therefore,  softening  his  to  a  whisper,  remarked,  as  he 
dangled  them  above  her  head,  "  I  thought  they  were  pretty  when 
I  gathered  them,  but  they  suffer  from  the  comparison.  Miss  Ger- 
trude ; "  and  he  gave  a  meaning  look  at  the  roses  in  her  cheeks. 

Gertrude,  to  whom  this  was  a  stale  compliment,  coming  from 
Mr.  Bruce,  took  no  notice  of  it,  but,  rising,  advanced  to  make 
her  exit  by  the  front-door,  saying,  I  will  go  across  the  piazza, 
Mr.  Bruce,  and  send  the  ladies  word  that  you  are  here." 

"  0,  pray  don't !  "  said  he,  putting  himself  in  her  way.  It 
would  be  cruel  ;  I  have  n't  the  slightest  wish  to  see  them." 

He  so  effectually  prevented  her,  that  she  was  unwillingly  com- 
pelled to  retreat  from  the  door  and  resume  her  seat.  As  she  did 
so,  she  took  her  work  from  her  pocket,  her  countenance  in  the 
mean  time  expressing  vexation. 

Mr.  Bruce  looked  his  triumph,  and  took  advantage-  of  it. 

"  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  he,  will  you  oblige  me  by  wearing 
these  flowers  in  your  hair  to-day  ?  " 

*'  I  do  not  wear  gay  flowers,"  replied  Gertrude,  without  lift- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  piece  of  muslin  on  which  she  was  employed. 

Supposing  this  to  be  on  account  of  her  mourning  (for  she  wore 
a  plain  black  dress),  he  selected  the  white  buds  from  the  rest,  and, 
presenting  them  to  her,  begged  that  for  his  sake,  she  would 
display  them  in  contrast  with  her  dark  silken  braids. 

am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Gertrude;  never  Raw 
more  beautiful  roses,  but  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  so  much 
dressed,  and  believe  you  must  excuse  me."  . 

"  Then  you  won't  take  my  flowers  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  will,  with  pleasure,"  said  she,  rising,  "  if  you 
will  let  me  get  a  glass  of  water,  and  place  them  in  the  parlor, 
fenere  we  can  all  enjoy  them." 

1  did  not  cut  my  flowers,  and  bring  them  here,  for  the  ben- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


259 


efit  of  the  whole  household,"  said  Ben,  in  a  half-offended  tone. 
"If  jou  wou.'t  wear  them.  Miss  Gertrude,  i  will  offer  Ihem  to 
8omebody  that  will." 

This,  he  thought,  would  alarm  her,  for  his  vanity  was  such 
that  he  attributed  her  behavior  wholly  to  coquetry,  and,  as  in- 
stances of  this  sort  had  always  served  to  enhance  his  admiration, 
he  believed  that  they  were  intended  to  produce  that  effect.  "  I 
will  punish  her,"  thought  he,  as  he  tied  the  roses  together  again, 
and  arranged  them  for  presentation  to  Kitty,  whom  he  knew 
would  be  flattered  to  receive  them. 

"  Where 's  Fanny  to-day  ?  "  asked  Gertrude,  anxious  to  divert 
the  conversation. 

"  1  don't  know,"  answered  Ben,  with  a  manner  which  implied 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  talking  about  Fanny. 

A  short  silence  ensued,  during  which  he  gazed  idly  at  Ger- 
trude's fingers,  as  she  sat  sewing. 

"  How  attentive  you  are  to  your  work !  "  said  he,  at  last ;  "  your 
ejes  seem  nailed  to  it.  I  wish  I  were  as  attractive  as  that  })iece 
of  muslin ! " 

"  I  wish  you  were  as  inoffensive,"  thought  Gertrude. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  take  much  pains  to  entertain  me,"  added 
he,  "when  I 've  come  here  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

"  T  thought  you  came  by  Mrs.  Graham's  invitation,"  said 
Gertrude. 

"  And  did  n't  I  have  to  court  Kitty  for  an  hour  in  order  to 
get  it  ? " 

"If  you  obtained  it  by  arfifice,"  said  Gertrude,  smiling,  "you 
do  not  deserve  to  be  entertained." 

"  It  is  much  easier  to  please  Kitty  than  you,"  remarked  Ben. 

"Kitty  is  very  amiable  and  pleasant,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Yes,  but  I 'd  give  more  for  one  smile  from  you  than  —  " 

Gertrude  now  interrupted  him  with,  "Ah  here  is  an  old 
friend  coming  to  see  us;  please  let  me  pass,  Mr.  Bruce. 

The  gate  at  the  end  of  the  yard  swung  to  as  she  spoke  and 
Ben,  looking  in  that  direction,  beheld  approaching  the  person 
whom  G  3rtrude  seemed  desirous  to  go  and  meet. 

"I  do  not  see  why  you  need  to  hurry/'  said  Ben;  ''that 


26o 


THK  LAMPLIGHTEB. 


little  crone,  whose  coming  seems  to  give  jou  so  much  satisfao 
tion,  can't  get  here  this  half-hour,  at  the  rate  she  is  travelling." 

"  She  is  an  old  friend,"  replied"  Gertrude ;  I  must  go  and  wel 
come  her."  Her  countenance  expressed  so  much  earnestness 
that  Mr.  Bruce  was  ashamed  to  persist  in  his  incivility,  and, 
rising,  permitted  her  to  pass.  Miss  Patty  Pace  —  for  slic  it  was 
who  was  toiling  up  the  yard  —  seemed  overjoyed  at  seeing  Ger- 
trude, and,  the  moment  she  recognized  her,  commenced  waving, 
in  a  theatrical  mianner,  a  huge  feather  fan,  her  favorite  mode  of 
salutation.  As  she  drew  near.  Miss  Patty  took  her  by  both 
hands,  and  stood  talking  with  her  some  minutes  before  they 
proceeded  together  up  the  yard.  They  entered  the  house  at  the 
side-door,  and  Ben,  being  thus  disappointed  of  Gertrude's  return, 
sallied  out  into  the  garden,  in  hopes  to  attract  the  notice  of 
Kitty. 

Ben  Bruce  had  such  confidence  in  the  power  of  wealth  and  a 
high  station  in  fashionable  life,  that  it  never  occurred  to  him  to 
doubt  that  Gertrude  would  gladly  accept  his  hand  and  fortune, 
if  it  were  placed  at  her  disposal.  No  degree  of  coldness,  or  even 
neglect,  on  her  part,  would  have  induced  him  to  believe  that  an 
orphan  girl,  without  a  cent  in  the  world,  would  forego  such  an 
opportunity  to  establish  herself. 

3Iany  a  prudent  and  worldly-wise  mother  had  sought  his 
acquaintance  ;  many  a  young  lady,  even  among  those  who  pos- 
sessed property  and  rank  of  their  own,  had  received  his  attention 
with  favor ;  and  believing,  as  he  did,  that  he  had  money  enough 
to  purchase  for  a  wife  any  woman  whom  he  chose  to  select,  he 
would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  that  Gertrude  would  presume  to 
hold  herself  higher  than  the  rest. 

lie  had  not  made  his  mind  up  to  such  an  important  step, 
however,  as  the  deliberate  surrender  of  the  many  advantages  of 
which  he  was  the  fortunate  possessor.  He  had  merely  deter- 
mined to  win  Gertrude's  good  opinion  and  affection  ;  and,  although 
more  interested  in  her  than  he  was  aware  of  himself,  he  at  present 
made  that  his  ultimate  object.  He  felt  conscious  that  as  yet  she 
had  given  no  evidence  of  his  success;  and,  having  resolved  to 
resort  to  some  new  means  of  winniag  her,  he,  with  »  too  commoD 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


261 


seltisluiess  and  baseness,  fixed  upon  a  method  which  was  calcu- 
lated, if  successful,  to  end  in  the  mortification  if  not  the  mihap- 
piness,  of  a  third  party.  He  intended  by  marked  devotion  to 
Kitty  Kay,  to  excite  the  jealousy  of  Gertrude ;  and  it  was  with 
the  view  to  furthering  his  intentions  that  he  walked  in  the  garden, 
hoping  to  attract  her  observation. 

O  !  it  was  a  shameful  scheme !  for  Kittj  liked  him  already. 
She  was  a  warm-hearted  girl,  —  a  credulous  one  too,  and  likely  to 
become  a  ready  victim  to  his  duplicitj 


CHAPrER  XXIX. 


Is  this  the  world  of  which  we  want  a  sight  1 
Are  these  the  beings  who  are  called  polite 

Hannah  More. 

A  HALJ-HOUR  before  dinner,  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  nieces,  Mr. 
Bruce,  his  sister  Fanny,  and  Lieutenant  Osborne,  as  they  sat 
in  the  large  parlor,  had  their  curiosity  much  excited  by  the  mer- 
riment which  seemed  to  exist  in  Emily's  room,  directly  above.  It 
was  not  noisy  or  rude,  but  strikingly  genuine.  Gertrude's  clear 
laugh  was  very  distinguishable,  and  even  Emily  joined  frequently 
in  the  outburst  which  would  every  now  and  then  occur ;  while 
still  another  person  appeared  to  be  of  the  party,  as  a  strange  and 
most  singular  voice  occasionally  mingled  with  the  rest. 

Kitty  ran  to  the  entry  two  or  three  times,  to  listen,  and  hear, 
if  possible,  the  subject  of  their  mirth,  and  at  last  returned  with 
the  announcement  that  Gertrude  was  coming  down  stairs  with  the 
very  queen  of  witches. 

Presently  Gertrude  opened  the  door,  which  Kitty  had  slammed 
behind  her,  and  ushered  in  Miss  Patty  Pace,  who  advanced  with 
measured,  mincing  steps  to  Mrs.  Graham,  aud,  stopping  in  front 
of  her,  made  a  low  curtsey. 

^^How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  half  inclined  to 
believe  that  Gertrude  was  playing  off  a  joke  upon  her. 

*'This,  I  presume,  is  the  mistress,"  said  Miss  Patty. 

Mrs.  Graham  acknowledged  her  claim  to  that  title. 

"  A  lady  of  presence  !  "  said  Miss  Patty  to  Gertrude,  la  an 
audible  whisper,  pronouncing  each  syllable  with  a  manner  and 
emphasis  peculiar  to  herself.  Then,  turning  towards  Belle,  who 
was  shrinking  into  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  she  approached  her 
Keld  up  both  hands  in  astonishment,  and  exclaiin^.d,  "  Miss  Is:; 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


263 


Delia,  as  I  still  enjoy  existence  !  and  radiant,  too,  as  the  morning  ! 
Bless  mj  heart !  how  jour  youthful  charms  have  expanded ! ' 

Belle  had  recognized  Miss  Pace  the  moment  she  entered  the 
room,  but,  with  foolish  pride,  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  the 
acquaintance  of  so  eccentric  an  individual,  and  would  have  still 
feigned  ignorance,  but  Kitty  now  came  forward,  exclaiming, 
*^  Why,  Miss  Par    where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Miss  Catharina,-  said  Miss  Pace,  taking  her  hands  in  an  ec- 
stasy of  astonishment,  then  you  knew  me!  Blessings  on  your 
memory  of  an  old  friend  !  " 

"Certainly,  I  knew  you  in  a  minute;  you're  not  so  easily 
forgotten,  I  assure  you.  Belle,  don't  you  remember  Miss  Pace? 
It 's  at  your  house  I 've  always  seen  her." 

0  is  it  she  ?  "  said  Belle,  with  a  poor  attempt  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  she  had  any  previous  knowledge  of  a  person  who  had 
been  a  frequent  visitor  at  her  father's  house,  and  was  held  in 
esteem  by  both  her  parents. 

"  I  apprehend,"  said  Miss  Patty  to  Kitty,  in  the  same  loud 
whisper,  that  she  carries  a  proud  heart."— Then,  without  having 
appeared  to  notice  the  gentlemen,  who  were  directly  behind  her, 
she  added,  "Sparks,  I  see,  Miss  Catharina,  young  sparks! 
Whose  ?  —  yours,  or  hers  ?  " 

Kitty  laughed,  for  she  saw  that  the  young  men  heard  her 
and  were  much  amused,  and  replied,  without  hesitation,  "0, 
mine.  Miss  Patty,  mine,  both  of  'em  !  "  Miss  Patty  now  looked 
round  the  room,  and,  missing  Mr.  Graham,  advanced  to  his  wife, 
saying,  "  And  where,  madam,  is  the  bridegroom  ?  " 

Mrs.  Graham,  a  little  confused,  replied  that  her  husband 
would  be  in  presently,  and  invited  Miss  Pace  to  be  seated. 

"  No,  mistress,  I  am  obliged  to  you ;  I  have  an  inquiring  mind, 
and,  with  your  leave,  will  take  a  survey  of  the  apartment.  I  love 
to  see  everything  that  is  modern."  She  then  proceeded  to  ex- 
amine  the  pictures  upon  the  walls,  but  had  not  proceeded  far 
before  she  turned  to  Gertrude  and  asked,  still  loud  enough  to  be 
distinctly  heard,  "  Gertrude,  my  dear,  what  have  they  dmie  with 
the  second  wife  ?  "  Gertrude  looked  surprised,  and  Miss  Pace 
oorrected  bcr  remark,  saying,  "  0,  it  is  the  counterfeit  that  1 


264 


THE  LAMPLiaHTER, 


have  reference  to,  the  original,  I  am  aware,  departed  long  since 
but  where  is  the  counterfeit  of  the  second  Mistress  Graham  ?  It 
always  hung  here,  if  my  memory  serves  me.'* 

Gertrude  whispered  a  reply  to  this  question,  and  Miss  Pace  then 
uttered  the  following  soliloquy :  "  The  garret !  well,  't  is  the 
course  of  nature ;  what  is  new  obliterates  the  recollection^  even^ 
of  the  old." 

She  now  linked  her  arm  in  Gertrude's,  and  made  her  the  com- 
panion  of  her  survey.  \Yhen  they  had  completed  the  circuit  of 
the  room,  she  stopped  in  front  of  the  group  of  young  people,  all 
of  whom  were  eying  her  with  great  amusement,  claimed  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  Bruce,  and  asked  to  be  introduced  to  the 
member  of  the  war  department,  as  she  styled  Lieutenant  Osborne. 
Kitty  introduced  her  with  great  formality,  and  at  the  same  time 
presented  the  lieutenant  to  Gertrude,  a  ceremony  which  she  felt 
indignant  that  her  aunt  had  not  thought  proper  to  perform.  A 
chair  was  now  brought,  Miss  Patty  joined  their  circle,  and  enter- 
tained them  until  dinner-time.  Gertrude  again  sought  Emilv's 
room. 

At  the  table,  Gertrude,  seated  next  to  Emily,  whose  wants  she 
always  made  her  care,  and  with  Miss  Patty  on  the  other  side, 
had  no  time  or  attention  to  bestow  on  any  one  else ;  much  to  the 
chag-rin  of  Mr.  Bruce,  who  was  anxious  she  should  observe  his 
assiduous  devotion  to  Kitty,  whose  hair  was  adorned  with  moss- 
rose  buds  and  her  face  with  smiles. 

Belle  was  also  made  happy  by  the  marked  admiration  of  hei 
young  officer,  Ccnd  no  one  felt  any  disposition  to  interfere  with 
either  of  the  well-satisfied  girls.  Occasionally,  however,  some 
remark  made  by  Miss  Pace  irresistibly  attracted  the  attention  of 
every  one  at  the  table,  and  extorted  either  the  laughter  it  was 
intended  to  (Excite,  or  a  mirth  which,  though  perhaps  ill-timed,  it 
was  impossible  to  repress. 

Mr.  Graham  treated  Miss  Patty  with  the  most  marked  polite- 
ness and  attention,  and  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was  possessed  of  great 
Buavity  of  manners  when  she  chose  to  exercise  it,  and  who 
loved  dearly  to  be  amused,  spared  no  pains  to  bring  out  the  old 
lady's  conversational  powers.    She  found,  too,  that  Miss  Pattj^ 


I'HE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


\vaE  aicquj>.' ated  with  everybody,  and  made  most  appropriate  aud 
amuj^iif^  comments  upon  almost  every  person  »vho  became  the 
topic  ol  conversation.  Mr.  Graham  at  last  led  her  to  speak  of 
herself  and  her  lonely  mode  of  life;  and  Fanny  Bruce,  who  safc 
nest,  asked  her,  bluntly,  why  she  never  got  married. 

"Ah,  my  young  miss,"  said  she,  "we  all  wait  our  time,  and  I 
isiay  take  a  companion  yet." 

''You  should, "  said  Mr.  Graham.  "  Now  you  have  property, 
Jllns  Pace,  and  ought  to  t:hare  it  with  some  nice,  thrifty  man." 
Mr.  Graham  knew  her  weak  point. 

"  I  have  bat  an  insignificant  trifle  of  worldly  wealth,"  said 
Miss  Pace,  "  and  am  not  as  youthful  as  I  have  been  ;  but  I  may 
suit  myself  witn  a  companion,  notwithstanding.  I  approve  of 
jiatrimony,  and  have  my  eye  upon  a  young  man." 

"  A  young  man  I  "  exclaimed  Fanny  Bruce,  laughing. 

**  0,  yes,  Miss  Frances,"  said  Miss  Patty  ;  "  I  am.  an  admirer 
of  youth,  and  of  everything  that  is  modern.  Yes,  I  cling  to  life 
—  I  cling  to  life.'' 

"  Certainly,"  remarked  Mrs.  Graham,  "  Miss  Pace  must  marry 
Bomebody  younger  than  herself;  some  one  to  whom  she  can  leave 
all  her  property,  if  he  should  happen  to  outlive  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Graham ;  *'  at  present  you  would  not  know 
how  to  make  a  will,  unless  you  left  all  your  money  to  Gertrude, 
here ;  I  rather  think  she  would  make  a  good  use  of  it." 

"  That  would  certainly  be  a  consideration  to  me,"  said  Miss 
Pace;  "  I  should  dread  the  thought  of  having  my  little  savings 
squandered.  Now,  I  know  there  's  more  than  a  sufficiency  of 
pauper  population,  and  plenty  that  would  be  glad  of  legacies  ; 
but  I  have  no  intention  of  bestowing  on  such.  Why,  sir,  nine- 
tenths  of  them  will  ahvays  be  poor.  No,  no  !  I  should  n't  give 
to  such  !    No,  no  !  I  have  other  intentions." 

"  Miss  Pace,"  asked  Mr.  Graham,  '  what  has  become  of  Gen. 
Pace's  family  ?  " 

•*  All  dead !  "  replied  Miss  Patty,  promptly,  "  all  dead !  I  made 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  grave  of  that  branch  of  the  family.  It  was' 
a  melancholy  and  touching  scene,"  continued  she,  in  a  pathetic 
r>oae  of  voice.  "  There  was  a  piece  of  grassy  giound,  belted  about 
2i5 


266 


THE  LAMPLrGHT:ER. 


vrith  an  iron  railing,  and  in  the  centre  a  ])eautiiul  while-marble 
monument,  m  which  they  were  all  buried ;  it  was  pure  as  alabas 
ter  and  on  it  was  inscribed  these  lines  : 

Pace.'  " 

"  What  were  the  lines  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Graham,  who  believed 
ner  ears  had  deceived  her. 

"  Pace,  ma'am,  Pace;  nothing  else." 

Solemn  as  was  the  subject,  a  universal  titter  pervaded  the 
circle;  and  Mrs.  Graham,  perceiving  that  Kitty  and  Fanny  would 
soon  burst  into  unvXDntrollable  fits  of  laughter,  made  the  move 
the  company  to  quit -the  table. 

The  i^entlemen  did  not  care  to  linger,  and  followed  the  lad.e3 
mto  the  wide  entry,  the  refreshing  coolness  of  vrhich  invited  every 
one  to  loiter  there  during  the  heat  of  the  day.  Miss  Patty  and 
Fanny  Bruce  compelled  the  unwilling  Gertrude  to  join  the  group 
there  assembled ;  and  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was  never  disposed  to 
forego  her  afternoon  nap,  was  the  only  member  of  the  family  who 
absented  herself. 

So  universal  was  the  interest  Miss  Patty  excited,  that  all  pri- 
vate dialogue  was  suspended,  and  close  attention  given  to  whatever 
topic  the  old  lady  was  discussing. 

Belle  maintained  a  slightly  scornful  expression  of  countenance, 
and  tried,  with  partial  success,  to  divert  Lieutenant  Osborne's 
thoughts  into  another  channel ;  but  Kitty  was  so  delighted  with 
Miss  Pace's  originality,  that  she  made  no  attempt  at  any  exclusive 
conversation,  and,  with  Mr.  Bruce  sitting  beside  her  and  joining 
in  her  amusement,  looked  more  than  contented. 

Dress  and  fashion,  two  favorite  themc3  with  Miss  Patty,  were 
now  introduced,  and,  after  discoursing  at  some  lengib  upon  her  lovo 
of  the  beautiful,  as  witnessed  in  the  mantua-niakiDg  and  millinery 
arts,  she  deliberately  left  her  seat,  and  goir^g  towards  Belle  (the 
only  one  of  the  company  who  seemed  desirous  to  avoid  her),  began 
to  examine  the  material  of  her  dress,  and  finally  requested  her  to 
rise  and  permit  her  to  further  inspect  the  mode  in  which  it  was 
made,  declaring  the  description  of  so  modern  and  finished  a  mas- 
ter-pit ce  of  art  would  be  a  feast  to  the  ears  of  some  of  hor  junior 
acqiiaintancefs 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


261 


BoUe  indignantly  refused  to  comply,  and  shook  off  the  hanJ 
of  the  eld  lady  as  if  there  had  been  contamination  in  her  touch 

**  Do  stand  up,  Belle,"  said  Kitty,  in  an  under  tone;  don't 
be  so  cross." 

'  Why  don't  you  stand  up  yourself,"  said  Belle,  "  and  show 
off  your  own  dress,  for  the  benefit  of  her  low  associates  ?  " 

"  She  did  n't  ask  me  to,"  replied  Kitty,  "  but  I  will,  with  the 
greatest  pleasure,  if  she  will  condescend  to  look  at  it.  Miss 
Pace,"  continued  she,  gayly,  placing  herself  in  front  cf  the 
inquisitive  Miss  Patty,  "  do  admire  my  gown  at  your  leisure, 
and  take  a  pattern  of  it,  if  you  like ;  I  should  be  proud  of  the 
honor." 

For  a  wonder,  Kitty's  dress  was  pretty  and  well  worthy  ot 
observation.  Miss  Patty  made  many  comments,  especially  on 
the  train,  as  she  denominated  its  unnecessary  and  inconvenient 
length  ;  and  then,  her  curiosity  being  satisfied,  commenced  retreat- 
ing towards  the  place  she  had  left,  first  glancing  behind  her  to 
see  if  it  was  still  vacant,  and  then  moving  towards  it  with  a  back- 
ward motion,  consisting  of  a  series  of  curtseys. 

Fanny  Bruce,  who  Stood  near,  observing  that  she  had  made  an 
exact  calculation  how  many  steps  would  be  required  to  reach  her 
seat,  placed  her  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  as  if  to  draw  it 
away ;  and,  encouraged  by  a  look  and  smile  from  Isabel,  moved 
it,  slightly,  but  still  enough  to  endanger  the  old  lady's  safety. 

On  attempting  to  regain  it,  Miss  Pace  stumbled,  and  would 
have  fallen,  but  Gertrude  —  who  had  been  watching  Fanny's  pro- 
ceedings—  sprung  forward  in  time  to  fling  an  arm  around  her 
and  place  her  safely  in  the  chair,  casting  at  the  same  time  a 
reproachful  look  at  Fanny;  \^ho,  much  confused,  turned  to  avoid 
Gertrude's  gaze,  and  in  doing  so  accidentally  trod  on  Mr.  Gra- 
ham's gouty  toes,  which  drew  from  him  an  exclamation  of  pai-; 

"  Fan,"  said  Mr.  Bruce,  who  h  id  observed  the  latter  accident 
only,  "  I  wish  you  could  learn  politeness." 

"  Who  am  I  to  learn  it  from  ?  "  asked  Fanny,  pertly,  —  "  you  ? " 

Ben  Iroked  provoked,  but  forbore  to  reply ;  while  Miss  Pace. 
who  hud  now  recovered  her  composure,  took  up  the  word  and 


268 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


"Politeness^  Ah,  a  lovely,  but  rare  virtue;  perceptibly 
developed,  lio\^ever,  in  the  manners  of  my  fi'iend  Gertrude, 
which  I  hesitate  not  to  affirm  would  well  become  a  princess." 

B  .He  curled  her  lip,  and  smiled  disdainfully.  *'  Lieutenant 
Osborne,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  think  Miss  Devereux  has  beautiful 
laanners  ^  " 

"Very  fine."  replied  the  lieutenant;  "the  style  in  which  she 
receives  company,  on  her  reception-day,  is  elegance  itself." 

"  Who  are  you  speaking  of :  "  inquired  Kitty ;  "  Mrs.  Harry 
Noble  ?  " 

"  Miss  Devereux,  we  were  remarking  upon,"  said  Belle,  "  but 
Mrs.  Noble  is  also  very  stylish." 

"  I  think  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Bruce ^  "do  you  hear,  Fanny ?- 
wc  have  found  a  model  for  you,  —  you  must  imitate  Mrs.  Noble. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Mrs.  Noble,"  retorted  Fanny 
"  I 'd  rather  imitate  Miss  Flint.  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  she 
with  a  seriousness  which  Gertrude  rightly  believed  was  intended 
to  express  regret  for  her  late  rudeness,  "  how  sJiuLi  1  learn  polite- 
aess  ? " 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  Gertrude,  speaking  low,  and  giv- 
ing Fanny  a  look  full  of  meaning,  "  what  your  music-master 
told  you  about  learning  to  play  with  expression  ?  I  should  give 
you  the  same  rule  for  improvement  in  politeness." 

Fanny  blushed  deeply. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  said  Mr.  Graham ;  "  let  us  know,  Fanny, 
what  is  Gertrude's  rule  for  politeness." 

"  She  only  said,"  answered  Fanny,  "  that  it  was  the  same  my 
music-master  gave  me  last  winter." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  "  inquired  her  brother,  with  a  tone  of 
tnterest. 

"  I  asked  Mr.  Hermann,"  said  Fanny,  "  how  I  should  learn  to 
play  with  expression,  and  he  said,  *  You  must  cultivate  your  keajt 
Miss  Bruce  ;  you  must  cultivate  your  heart.^  " 

This  new  direction  for  the  attainment  of  a  great  accomplish- 
ment was  received  with  countenances  that  indicated  as  great  a 
variety  of  sentimsnt  as  there  was  diiference  of  character  among 
Fanny's  audience.    Mr  Graham  bit  his  lip,  and  walked  away 


THE  LAMPILGHTEU. 


269 


tbv  j  olitenes^  was  founded  on  no  such  rule,  and  he  knew  that 
Gertii.d3's  was.  Belle  looked  glorious  disdain;  Mr.  Bruce  and 
Kitty,  puzzled  and  half  amused  whils  Lieutenant  Osborne  proved 
himself  not  quite  callous  to  a  noble  truth,  by  turning  upon 
Gertrude  a  glance  of  admiration  and  interest.  Emily's  face 
evidsinced  how  fully  she  c^  Incided  in  the  opinion  thus  uninten- 
tionally made  public,  and  Miss  Patty  unhesitatingly  expressed 
her  approbation. 

"  Miss  Gertrude's  remark  is  undeniably  a  verity,"  said  she. 
"The  only  politeness  which  is  trustworthy  is  the  spontaneous 
offering  of  the  heart.  Perhaps  this  goodly  company  of  masters 
and  misses  would  condescend  to  give  ear  to  an  old  woman's  tale 
of  a  rare  instance  of  true  politeness,  and  the  fitting  reward  it 
met" 

All  professed  a  strong  desire  to  hear  Miss  Patty's  story,  and 
she  began : 

"  On  a  winter's  day,  some  years  ago,  an  old  woman  of  many 
foibles  and  besetting  weaknesses,  but  with  a  keen  eye  and  her 
share  of  worldly  wisdom,  —  Miss  Patty  Pace  by  name,  —  started 
by  special  invitation  for  the  house  of  one  worshipfni  Squire  Clin- 
ton, the  honored  parent  of  Miss  Isabella,  the  fair  damsel  yonder. 
Every  tall  tree  in  our  good  city  was  spangled  with  frost-work, 
more  glittering  far  than  gems  that  sparkle  in  Golconda's  mine, 
and  the  oide-walks  were  a  snare  to  the  feet  of  the  old  and  the 
unwary. 

"I  lost  my  equilibrium,  and  fell.  Two  gallant  gentlemen 
lifted  and  carried  me  to  a  neighboring  apothecary's  emporium, 
restored  my  scattered  wits,  and  revived  me  with  a  fragrant 
sordial.  I  went  on  my  way  with  many  a  misgiving,  however,  and 
scarcely  should  I  have  reached  my  destination  with  bones  un« 
broken,  had  it  not  been  for  a  knight  with  a  rosy  countenance,  who 
overtook  me,  placed  my  old  arm  within  his  own  more  stirong  and 
youthful  one,  and  protected  my  steps  to  the  very  end  of  my 
journey.  No  slight  courage  either,  my  young  misses,  did  my 
noble  escort  need,  to  carry  him  through  what  he  had  undertaken. 
Paint  to  your  imaginations  a  youth  fresh  and  beautiful  as  a  sun- 
beam, straight  as  an  arr^w,  —  a  perfect  Apollo,  indeed,  —  linke«^ 
23=^ 


270 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


to  tne  little  bent  Dody  of  poor  Miss  Patty  Pace.  1  will  noi 
spare  myself,  young  ladies;  for,  had  you  seen  me  then,  you  would 
consider  me  now  vastly  ameliorated  in  outward  presentment 
My  double  row  of  teeth  were  stowed  away  in  my  pocket,  my 
frisette  was  pushed  back  from  ray  head  by  my  recent  fall,  and  my 
gog&  —  the  same  my  father  wore  before  me  —  covered  my  face, 
and  they  alone  attracted  attention,  and  created  some  excitement. 
But  he  went  on  unmoved ;  and,  in  spite  of  many  a  captivating 
glance  and  smile  from  long  rows  of  beautiful  young  maidens 
whom  we  met,  and  many  a  sneer  from  the  youths  of  his  own  age, 
he  sustained  my  feeble  form  with  as  much  care  as  if  I  had  been 
an  empress,  and  accommodated  his  buoyant  step  to  the  slow  move- 
ment which  my  infirmities  compelled.  Ah !  what  a  spirit  of  con- 
formity he  manifested  !  —  my  knight  of  the  rosy  countenance  !  — 
Could  you  have  seen  him,  Miss  Catharina,  or  you,  Miss  Frances, 
your  palpitating  hearts  would  have  taken  flight  forever.  He  was 
a  paragon,  indeed. 

"  Whither  his  own  way  tended  I  cannot  say,  for  he  moved  in 
3onformity  to  mine,  and  left  me  not  until  I  was  safe  at  the  abodo 
of  Mistress  Clinton.  I  hardly  think  he  coveted  my  old  heart, 
but  I  sometimes  believe  it  followed  him;  for  truly  he  is  still  a 
frequent  subject  of  my  meditations." 

"  Ah  !  then  that  was  his  reward  !  "  exclaimed  Kitty. 

"  Not  so.  Miss  Kitty  ;  guess  again." 

"  I  can  think  of  iwtliing  so  desirable^  Miss  Patty." 

"  His  fortu7ie  in  life^  Miss  Catharina, — that  was  his  reward ;  it 
may  be  that  he  cannot  yet  estimate  the  full  amount  of  his  recom- 
ipense." 

How  so  ?  "  exclaimed  Fanny. 
"  I  will  briefly  narrate  the  rest.  Mistress  Clinton  encouraged 
tne  always  to  converse  much  in  her  presence.  She  knew  my  taste, 
was  disposed  to  humor  me,  and  I  was  pleased  to  be  indulged.  1 
told  my  story,  and  enlarged  upon  the  merits  of  my  noble  youth, 
and  his  wonderful  spirit  of  conformity.  The  squire,  a  gentleman 
who  e:itimateH  good  breeding,  was  present,  with  his  -^ars  open  • 
and  when  I  recommended  my  knight  with  all  the  eloquence  I 
«ould  ocmmacd,  lie  was  amused,  interested,  pleased.    He  piom 


THE  LAMPLlUHTER. 


271 


isea  10  see  the  boy,  and  did  so;  the  noble  features  spa k a  foi 
themselves,  and  gained  him  a  situation  as  clerk,  from  which  he 
has  since  advanced  in  the  ranks,  until  now  he  occupies  the  posi- 
tion of  partner  and  confidential  agent  in  a  creditable  and  wealthy 
k-iouse.  Miss  Isabella,  it  would  rejoice  my  heart  to  hear  the 
atest  tidings  from  Mr.  William  Sullivan." 

"  He  is  well,  I  believe,"  said  Isabella,  sulkily.  "  I  know  noth- 
.ng  to  the  contrary," 

"  0,  Gertrude  knows,"  said  Fanny.  "  Gertrude  knows  all 
about  Mr.  Sullivan  ;  she  will  tell  you." 

All  turned,  and  looked  at  Gertrude,  who,  with  face  flushed, 
and  eyes  glistening  with  the  interest  she  felt  in  Miss  Patty's  nar- 
rative, stood  leaning  upon  Emily's  chair.  Miss  Patty  now 
appealed  to  her,  much  surprised,  however,  at  her  having  any 
knowledge  of  her  much-admired  and  well-remembered  young 
escort.  Gertrude  drew  near,  and  answered  all  her  questions 
without  the  least  hesitation  or  embarrassment,  but  in  a  tone  of 
Toice  so  low  that  the  others,  most  of  whom  felt  no  interest  in 
Willie,  entered  into  conversation,  and  left  her  and  Miss  Patty  to 
discourse  freely  concerning  a  mutual  friend. 

Gertrude  gave  Miss  Pace  a  brief  account  of  the  wonder  and 
curiosity  which  Willie  and  his  friends  had  felt  concerning  the 
original  author  of  his  good  fortune ;  and  the  old  lady  was  so 
entertained  and  delighted  at  hearing  of  the  various  conjectures 
and  doubts  which  arose  on  the  reception  of  Mr.  Clinton's  unex 
pected  summons,  and  of  the  matter  being  finally  attributed  to 
the  agency  of  Santa  Glaus,  that  her  laugh  was  nearly  as  loud, 
and  quite  as  heart-felt,  as  that  of  the  gay  party  near  the  dooi- 
step,  whom  Kitty  and  Fanny  had  excited  to  unusual  merriment. 
Miss  Pace  was  just  taxing  Gertrude  with  interminable  compli- 
ments and  messages  of  remembrance  to  be  despatched  in  her  next 
letter  to  Willie,  when  Mrs.  Graham  presented  herself,  refreshed 
both  in  dress  and  countenance  since  her  nap,  and  arrested  tho 
attention  of  th3  whole  company,  by  exclaiming,  in  her  abrupt 
manner  an(^  loud  tones, 

What !  are  you  all  here  still     I  thought  you  were  bound 


272 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


for  a  walk  in  the  woods.  Kitty,  what  has  become  of  youi  cher- 
ished scheme  of  climbing  Sunset  Hill  ?  " 

•*  I  proposed  it,  aunt,  an  hour  ago,  but  Belle  insisted  it  was  to« 
warm.    I  think  the  weather  is  just  right  for  a  walk." 

"  It  will  soon  be  growing  cool,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  "  and  I  thinlj 
you  had  better  start ;  it  is  some  distance  if  you  go  round 
through  the  woods." 

"  Who  knows  the  way  ?  "  asked  Kitty. 

No  one  responded  to  the  question,  and,  on  being  individually 
appealed  to,  all  professed  total  ignorance ;  much  to  the  astonish* 
ment  of  Gertrude,  who  believed  that  every  part  of  the  woody 
ground  and  hill  beyond  were  familiar  to  Mr.  Bruce.  She  did 
not  stay,  however,  to  hear  any  further  discussion  of  their  plans ; 
for  Emily  was  beginning  to  suffer  from  headache  and  weariness, 
and  Gertrude,  perceiving  it,  insisted  that  she  should  seek  the 
quiet  of  her  own  room,  to  which  she  herself  accompanied  her. 
She  was  just  closing  the  chamber-door,  when  Fanny  called  from 
the  staircase,  "  Miss  Gertrude,  an't  you  going  to  walk  with  us  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Gertrude,  "  not  to-day." 

"  Then  I  won't  go,"  said  Fanny,  "  if  you  don't.  Why  don't 
you  go,  Miss  Gertrude  ?  " 

I  shall  walk  with  Miss  Emily,  by  and  by,  if  she  is  well 
enough ;  you  can  accompany  us,  if  you  like,  but  I  think  you 
would  enjoy  going  to  Sunset  Hill  much  more." 

Meantime  a  whispered  consultation  took  place  below,  in  which 
Bome  one  suggested  that  Gertrude  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
path  which  the  party  wished  to  follow  through  the  woods.  Bell^ 
opposed  her  being  invited  to  join  them  ;  Kitty  hesitated  between 
her  liking  for  Gertrude  and  her  fears  regarding  Mr.  Bruce's 
allegiance;  Lieutenant  Osborne  forbore  to  urge  what  BeUe  disap- 
proval; and  Mr.  Bruce  remained  silent,  trusting  to  ^he  final 
necessity  of  her  being  invited  to  act  as  guide,  in  which  capacity 
he  had  purposely  concealed  his  own  ability  to  serve.  This  neces- 
sity was  so  obvious,  that,  as  he  had  foreseen  Kitty  was  at  lasi 
despatched  to  find  Gertrude  and  make  known  their  request 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

I'herj  are  haughty  steps  that  would  walk  the  globe 
O'er  necks  of  humbler  ones. 

Miss  L.  P.  Smith, 

Gertrude  would  have  declined,  and  made  her  attendance  upon 
Emiij  an  excuse  for  non-compliance;  but  Emily  herself,  believing 
that  the  exercise  would  be  beneficial  to  Gertrude,  interfered,  and 
^  begged  her  to  agree  to  Kitty's  apparently  very  cordial  proposal , 
and,  on  the  latter's  declaring  that  the  expedition  must  otherwis(i 
be  given  up,  she  consented  to  join  it.  To  change  her.  slippers  for 
thick  walking-boots  occupied  a  few  minutes  only ;  a  few  more 
were  spent  in  a  vain  search  for  her  flat  hat,  which  was  missing' 
from  the  closet  where  it  usually  hung. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  said  Emily,  hearing  Gertrude 
once  or  twice  open  and  shut  the  door  of  the  large  closet  at  the 
end  of  the  upper  entry. 

"  My  hat ;  but  I  don't  see  it.  I  believe  I  shall  have  to  borrow 
your  sun-bonnet  again,"  and  she  took  up  a  white  sun-bonnet,  the 
same  she  had  worn  in  the  morning,  and  which  now  lay  on  the 
bed. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  Emily. 

^'  I  shall  begin  to  think  it 's  mine,  before  long,"  said  Gertrude, 
gayly,  as  she  ran  off;  "I  wear  it  so  much  more  than  you  do.'' 
She  found  Fanny  waiting  for  her ;  the  rest  of  the  party  had 
started  and  were  some  distance  down  the  road,  nearly  out  of 
eight.  Emily  now  called  from  the  staircase,  "  Gertrude,  my 
child,  have  you  thick  shoes  ?  It  is  always  very  wet  in  the  meadow 
beyond  the  Thornton  place."  Gertrude  assured  her  that  she 
had;  but,  fearing  that  th;  others  were  less  carefully  equipped, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


inquir  >l  of  Mrs.  Graham  whether  Belle  and  Kitty  were  insured 
against  the  dampness,  possibly  the  mud,  they  might  encounter. 

Mr?.  Grraham  declared  they  were  not,  and  was  at  a  loss  what 
to  do,  as  they  were  now  quite  out  of  sight,  and  it  would  be  go 
much  trouble  foj  them  to  return. 

I  have  some  very  light  India-rubbers,"  said  Gertrude  ;  "  I 
will  take  them  with  me,  and  Fanny  and  I  shall  be  in  time  to 
warn  them  before  they  coma  to  the  piact5.'' 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  overtake  Belle  and  the  lieutenant, 
for  they  walked  very  slowly,  and  seemed  not  unwillfng  to  be  left 
m  ihe  rear.  The  reverse,  however,  was  the  case  with  Mr.  Bruce 
and  Kitty,  who  appeared  purposely  to  keep  in  advance ;  Kitty 
Hastening  her  steps  from  her  reluctance  to  allow  an  agreeable 
rete-a-tete  to  be  interfered  with,  and  Ben  from  a  desire  to 
occupy  such  a  position  as  would  give  Gertrude  a  fair  opportunity 
to  observe  his  devotion  to  Kitty,  which  increased  the  moment 
s/ie  camo  in  sight  whose  jealousy  he  was  desirous  to  arouse. 

They  had  now  passed  the  Thornton  farm,  and  only  one  field 
iseparated  them  from  the  meadow,  which,  covered  with  grass,  and 
fair  to  the  eye,  was  nevertheless  in  the  centre  a  complete  quag- 
mire, and  only  passable,  even  for  the  thickly  shod,  by  keeping 
close  to  the  wall,  and  thus  skirting  the  field.  Gertrude  and 
Fanny  were  some  distance  behind,  and  already  nearly  out  of 
breath  with  a  pursuit  in  which  the  others  had  gained  so  great  an 
advantage.  As  they  were  passing  the  farm-house,  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton appeared  at  the  door  and  addressed  Gertrude,  who,  fore- 
seeing that  she  should  be  detained  some  minutes,  bade  Fanny 
run  on,  acquaint  her  brother  and  Kitty  with  the  nature  of  the 
soil  in  advance,  and  beg  them  to  wait  at  the  bars  until  the  rest 
ol  :he  party  came  up.  Fanny  was  too  late,  notwithstanding  the 
\iaste  she  made ;  they  were  half  across  the  meadow  ^  hen  she 
reached  the  bars,  proceeding,  however,  in  perfect  safety,  for  Mr. 
Bruce  was  conducting  Kitty  by  the  only  practicable  path,  close 
under  the  wall,  proving  to  Gertrude,  who  in  a  few  moments  joined 
lanny,  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  place.  When  they  were 
about  half-way  across,  they  seemed  to  encounter  some  obstacle 
for  Kitty  stood  poised  on  one  foot  ard  clingin,^  to  the  wall,  while 


THE  LAMPLIGHIEK. 


275 


Mr.  Bruce  placed  a  few  stepping-stones  across  the  j.atli.  He 
then  helped  her  over,  and  they  went  on,  their  figures  eoon  dis- 
appearing in  the  grove  beyond. 

Isabel  and  the  lieutenant  were  so  long  making  their  appear- 
ance that  Fanny  became  very  impatient,  and  urged  Gertrude  to 
leave  them  to  their  fate.  They  at  last  turned  the  corner  near 
the  farm-house,  and  came  on,  Belle  maintaining  her  leisurely 
paci'.  althouglp  it  was  easy  to  be  seen  that  the  others  woto  waiting 
for  her. 

"  Are  you  lame,  Miss  Clinton  ?  "  called  out  Fanny,  a»  soon  as 
they  were  within  hearing. 

**  Lame  !  "  said  Belle  ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  walk  so  slow,"  said  Fanny,  I  thought  something 
must  be  the  matter  with  your  feet." 

Belle  disdained  any  reply  to  this,  and,  tossing  her  head,  entered 
the  damp  meadow,  in  close  conversation  with  her  devoted  young 
officer,  not  deigning  even  to  look  at  Gertrude,  who,  without 
appearing  to  notice  her  haughtiness,  took  Fanny's  hand,  and. 
turning  away  from  the  direct  path,  to  make  the  circuit  of  th^ 
field,  said  to  Belle,  with  an  unruffled  ease  and  courtesy  of 
manner,  "  This  way,  if  you  please,  Miss  Clinton ;  we  have  been 
waiting  to  guide  you  through  this  wet  meadow." 

"  Is  it  wet  ?"  asked  Belle,  in  alarm,  glancing  down  at  her  del 
icate  slipper  ;  she  then  added,  in  a  provoked  tone,  "  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  have  known  better  than  to  bring  us  this  way. 
I  shan't  go  across." 

"  Then  you  c^yi  go  back,"  said  the  pert  Fanny ;  "  nobody 
earcs." 

"  It  was  not  my  proposition,"  remarked  Gertrude,  mildly, 
though  with  a  heightened  color,  "  but  I  think  I  can  help  you 
(Tirough  the  difficulty.  Mrs.  Graham  was  afraid  you  had  worn 
ihin  shoes,  and  I  brought  you  a  pair  of  India-rubberB  " 

Belle  took  them,  and,  without  the  grace  to  express  any  thanks, 
e.iid,  as  she  unfolded  the  pper  in  which  they  were  wrapjred 
^'  Whose  are  they  ?  " 

•*  Mine,''  repUed  Gertrude. 


276 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


"  I  don't  believe  I  can  keep  them  on,"  muttered  Belle ;  "  they  11 
DC  immense,  I  suppose.' ' 

"  Allow  me,"  said  the  lieutenant ;  and,  taking  one  of  the 
shoes,  he  stooped  to  place  it  on  her  foot,  but  found  it  difficult  to 
do  so,  as  it  proved  quite  too  small.  Belle,  perceiving  this  to  be 
the;  case,  bent  down  to  perform  the  office  for  herself,  and  treated 
Gertrude's  property  with  such  angry  violence  that  she  snapped 
the  slender  strap  which  passed  across  the  instep,  and  even  then 
only  succeeded  in  partially  forcing  her  foot  into  the  shoe. 

Meantime,  as  she  bent  forward,  Fanny's  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  very  tasteful  broad-brimmed  hat,  which  she  wore  jauntily 
let  on  one  side  of  her  head,  and  which  Fanny  at  once  recognized 
as  G-ertrude's.  It  was  a  somewhat  fanciful  article  of  dress,  that 
Gertrude  would  hardly  have  thought  of  purchasing  for  herself, 
but  which  Mr.  Graham  had  selected  and  brought  home  to  her 
the  previous  summer,  to  replace  a  common  garden  hat  which  he 
iiad  accidentally  crushed  and  ruined  As  the  style  of  it  was 
simple  and  in  good  taste,  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  wearing  it 
often  in  her  country  walks,  and  usually  kept  it  hung  in  the  entry 
closet,  where  it  had  been  found  and  appropriated  by  Belle.  It 
had  been  seen  by  Fanny  in  Gertrude's  room  at  Mrs.  Warren's ; 
she  had  also  been  permitted  to  wear  it  on  one  occasion,  when  she 
took  part  in  a  charade  and  could  not  be  mistaken  as  to  its 
identity.  Having  heard  Gertrude  remark  to  Emily  upon  its 
being  missing,  she  was  asttnished  to  see  it  adorning  Belle ;  and, 
as  she  stood  behind  her,  deliberately  pointed,  made  signs  to  Ger- 
trude, opened  her  eyes,  distorted  her  countenance,  and  performed 
a  series  of  pantomimic  gestures  expressive  of  an  intention  to 
(Snatch  it  from  Miss  Clinton's  head,  and  place  it  on  that  of  its 
/ightful  owner. 

Gertrude's  gravity  nearly  gave  way ;  she  shook  her  head  at 
Fanny,  held  up  her  finger,  made  signs  for  her  to  forbear,  and, 
with  a  face  whose  laughter  was  only  concealed  by  the  deep  white 
bonnet  which  she  wore,  took  her  hand,  and  hastened  with  hei 
ulong  the  path,  leaving  Belle  and  beau  to  follow. 

Fanny,"  said  she,  "you  must  not  make  me  laugh  so;  if  Miss 
Jlinton  had  seen  us.  she  would  have  been  -ery  much  hurt." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


She  has  no  business  to  wear  your  hat,"  said  Fanny ;  "  anfl 
die  shan't !  ' 

•*  Yes,  she  shall,"  replied  Gertrude  ;  *'  she  looks  beautifully  in 
it.  1  am  delighted  to  have  her  wear  it,  and  you  must  not  inti 
mate  to  her  that  it  is  mine." 

Fanny  would  not  promise,  and  there  was  a  sly  look  in  her  eye 
rhich  prophesied  mischief. 

The  walk  through  the  woods  was  delightful,  and  Gertrude  and 
her  young  companion,  in  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  it,  had  almost 
forgotten  that  they  were  members  of  a  gay  party,  when  they 
suddenly  came  in  sight  of  Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce.  They  were 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  an  old  oak,  Kitty  earnestly  engaged  in  the 
manufacture  of  an  oak-wreath,  which  she  was  just  fitting  to  her 
attendant's  hat;  while  he  himself,  when  Gertrude  first  caught 
sight  of  him,  was  leaning  against  the  tree  m  a  careless,  listless 
attitude.  As  soon,  however,  as  he  perceived  their  approach,  he 
bent  forward,  inspected  Kitty's  work,  and,  when  they  cam6 
within  hearing,  was  uttering  a  profusion  of  thanks  and  compli* 
ments,  which  he  took  care  should  reach  Gertrude's  ears,  and 
which  the  blushing,  smiling  Kitty  received  with  manifest  pleasure, 
—  a  pleasure  which  was  still  further  enhanced  by  her  perceiving 
that  Gertrude  had  apparently  no  power  to  withdraw  his  attention 
from  her,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  he  permitted  her  rival  to 
seat  herself  at  a  distance,  and  continued  to  pour  into  her  own  ear 
little  confidential  nothings.  Poor,  simple  Kitty!  she  believed 
him  honest,  while  he  bought  her  heart  with  counterfeits. 

Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Fanny,  I  wish  we  could  go  into  some 
pine  woods,  so  that  I  could  get  some  cones  to  make  baskets  and 
frames  of." 

There  are  plenty  of  pines  in  that  direction,"  said  Gertrude, 
pointing  with  her  finger. 

"  Why  can't  we  go  and  look  for  cones  ?  "  asked  Fanny  ;  "  we 
could  get  back  by  the  time  Belle  Clinton  reaches  this  place." 

Gertrude  professed  her  willingness  to  do  so,  and  she  and 
Fanny  started  off,  having  first  tied  their  bonnets  to  the  branch 
of  a  tree.    They  were  gone  some  time,  for  Fanny  found  plenty 
cones,  and  made  a  large  coUe  tion  of  them,  but  was  then  at  a 
24 


278 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


OSS  how  to  carry  them  home.  "I  have  thought,"  said  she,  ai 
last ;  "  I  will  run  back  and  borrow  brother  Ben's  handkei chief, 
or,  if  he  won't  let  me  have  it,  I  '11  take  my  own  bonnet  and  fill  it 
full."  Gertrude  promised  to  await  her  return,  and  she  ran  ofi 
When  she  came  near  the  spot  where  she  had  left  Kitty  and  Mr 
Bruce,  she  heard  several  voices  and  loud  laughter.  Belle  and 
the  lieutenant  had  arrived,  and  they  T3re  having  great  sport 
abo'H  something.  Belle  was  standing  with  the  white  cape-bonnet 
in  her  hand.  She  had  bent  it  completely  out  of  shape,  so  as  tv. 
give  it  the  appearance  of  an  old  womarJs  cap,  had  adorned  the 
front  with  white-weed  and  dandelions  and  finally  pinned  on  a 
handkerchief  to  serve  as  a  veil.  It  certainly  looked  very  ridic- 
ulous; —  she  was  holding  it  up  on  the  end  of  the  lieutenant's 
cane,  and  endeavoring  to  obtain  a  bid  for  Miss  Flint's  brida. 
bonnet. 

Fanny  listened  a  moment  with  an  indignant  countenance,  then 
advanced  with  a  bound,  as  if  just  running  from  the  woods. 
Kitty  caught  her  frock  as  she  passed,  and  exclaimed,  "  Why, 
Fanny,  are  you  here  ?    Where 's  Gertrude  ?  " 

0,  she 's  in  the  pine  woods !  "  replied  Fanny,  "  and  I 'm 
going  right  back  ;  she  only  sent  me  to  get  her  hat,  the  sun 's  S6 
warm  where  we  are." 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  said  Belle,  "  her  Paris  hat.  Please  give  it  to 
her,  with  our  compliments." 

No,  that  is  n't  hers,"  said  Fanny ;  "  that  is  Miss  Emily's. 
This  is  hers ;  "  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  straw  head-dress 
which  the  gentlemen  had  but  a  moment  before  been  assuring 
Belle  was  vastly  becoming,  and,  without  ceremony,  snatched  it 
from  her  head. 

Belle's  eyes  flashed  angrily.  "What  do  you  mean?"  said 
Bhe,  "  you  saucy  little  creature  !  Give  me  that  hat !  "  and  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  take  it. 

I  shan't  do  any  such  thing,"  said  Fanny  ;  "  it 's  Gertrude's 
hat.  Slie  looked  for  it  this  afternoon,  but  concluded  it  was 
:;ither  lost  or  stolen,  and  so  borrowed  Miss  Emily's  cape-bonnet; 
but  she  '11  be  very  glad  to  find  it,  and  I  '11  carry  it  to  her.  1 
rather  think,"  said  she,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  ran  o£^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


279 


» 1  rathe?  fcHnk  Miss  Emily  would  be  willing  you  should  weal 
her  bonrjet  home,  if  you  '11  be  careful  and  not  bend  it !  " 

A  few  moments  of  embarrassment  and  anger  to  Belle,  laughter 
fiom  Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce,  and  concealed  amusement  on  Lieu- 
tenant Osborne's  part,  and  Gertrude  came  hastily  from  the 
woods,  with  the  hat  in  her  hand,  Fanny  following  her,  and  taking 
advantage  of  Belle's  position,  with  her  back  towards  her,  to 
resume  her  pantomimic  threats  and  insinuations.  "Miss  Clin- 
ton," said  Gertrude,  as  she  placed  the  hat  in  her  lap,  "  I  am 
afiaid  Fanny  has  been  very  rude  in  my  name.  I  did  not  send 
her  for  either  hat  or  bonnet,  and  ^hall  be  pleased  to  have  you 
wear  this  as  often  as  you  like.'* 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  said  Belle,  scornfully ;  "  I 'd  no  idea  it 
belonged  to  you." 

Certainly  not ;  I  am  aware  of  it,"  said  Gertrude.  "  But  I 
trust  that  will  not  prevent  your  making  use  of  it  for  to-day,  at 
least."  Without  urging  the  matter  further,  she  proposed  that 
they  should  hasten  on  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  which  they  could  not 
otherwise  reach  before  sundown ;  and  set  the  example  by  moving 
forward  in  that  direction,  Fanny  accompanying  her,  and  busying 
herself  as  she  went  with  stripping  the  decorations  from  Emily'a 
despised  bonnet ;  Belle  tying  an  embroidered  handkerchief  under 
her  chin,  and  Mr.  Bruce  swinging  on  his  arm  the  otherwise 
neg:lected  hat. 

Belle  did  not  recover  her  temper  for  the  evening;  the  rest 
found  their  excursion  agreeable,  and  it  was  nearly  dark  when 
they  reached  the  Thornton  farm  on  their  return.  Here  Gertrude 
left  them,  telling  Fanny  that  she  had  promised  to  stop  and  see 
Jemmy  Thornton,  one  of  her  Sunday-school  class,  who  was  sick 
with  a  fever,  and  refusing  to  let  her  remain,  as  her  mother  migh^j 
not  wish  her  to  enter  the  house  where  several  of  the  family  werfj 
sick. 

About  an  hour  after,  as  Gertrude  was  walking  home  in  some 
haste,  she  was  j  Dined  near  Mr.  Graham's  house  by  Mr.  Brucft; 
whoy  with  her  hat  stiil  hanging  on  his  arm,  seemed  to  have  hcQH 
awaiting  her  return.    She  started  on  his'  abruptly  joining  her 


THE  LAMPLIGliTKK. 


for  it  vas  so  dark  that  she  did  not  at  once  recognize  nim,  and 
Birf/po.-ed  it  might  be  a  stranger. 

-  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  he,  "  I  hope  I  don't  alarm  you." 

^'  0.  no,"  said  she  reassured  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  I  did 
not  know  who  it  was." 

He  offered  his  arm,  and  she  took  it ;  for  his  recent  devotion  to 
Kitty  had  served  in  some  degree  to  relieve  her  of  any  fear  she 
had  felt  lest  his  attentions  carried  meaning  with  them  ;  and,  con- 
cluding that  he  liked  to  play  beau-general,  she  had  no  objection 
to  his  escorting  her  home. 

"  We  had  a  very  pleasant  walk,  this  evening,"  said  he ;  "  at 
least,  I  had.    Miss  Kitty  is  a  very  entertaining  companion." 

^'  I  think  she  is,"  replied  Gertrude;  "  I  like  her  frank,  lively 
manners  much." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  found  Fanny  rather  poor  company.  I  should 
nave  joined  you  occasionally,  but  I  could  hardly  find  an  opportu- 
nity to  quit  Miss  Kitty,  we  were  so  much  interested  in  what  we 
were  saying." 

"  Fanny  and  I  are  accustomed  to  each  other,  and  very  happy 
together,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Do  you  know  we  have  planned  a  delightful  drive  for  to- 
morrow ?" 

"  No,  I  was  not  aware  of  it." 
I  suppose  Miss  Ray  expects  I  shall  ask  her  to  go  with  me 
but  supposing,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  should  give  you  the  preference 
and  ask  you,  —  what  should  you  say  ?  " 

That  I  was  much  obliged  to  you,  but  had  an  engagement  U> 
take  a  drive  with  Miss  Emily,"  replied  Gertrude,  promptly. 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  he,  in  a  surprised  and  provoked  tone,  1 
thought  you  would  like  it ;  but  Miss  Kitty,  I  doubt  not,  will  ac- 
cept. I  will  go  in  and  ask  her  (for  they  had  now  reached  the 
aouse).    Here  is  your  hat." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Gertrude,  and  would  have  taken  it ;  but 
Ben  still  held  it  by  one  string,  and  said, 

"  Then  you  won't  go.  Miss  Gertrude  ? " 
My  engagement  with  Miss  Emily  cannot  be  postponed  on  anj 


TBE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


281 


Recount,*  answered  Gertrude,  thankful  that  she  had  so  excellent 
a  reason  for  declining. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Mr.  Bruce ;  jou  could  go  with  me  if  you 
chose ;  and,  if  you  don't,  I  shall  certainly  invite  Miss  Kitty." 

The  weight  he  seemed  to  attach  to  this  threat  astonit^^hed 
Gertrude.  "  Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  she,  "  that  he  exp(icts 
thus  to  pique  and  annoy  me  ? "  and  she  replied  to  it  by  sayiug, 
"  I  shall  be  happy  if  my  declining  prove  the  means  of  Kitty's 
enjoying  a  pleasant  drive ;  she  is  fond  of  variety,  and  has  few 
opportunities  here  to  indulge  her  taste." 

They  now  entered  the  parlor.  Mr.  Bruce  sought  Kitty  in  the 
recess  of  the  window,  and  Gertrude,  not  finding  Emily  present, 
staid  but  a  short  time  in  the  room  ;  long  enough,  however,  to 
observe  Mr  'ruce's  exaggerated  devotion  to  Kitty,  which  was 
marked  by  uLacrs  beside  herself.  Kitty  promised  to  accompany 
him  the  next  day,  and  did  so.  Mrs.  Graham,  Mrs.  Bruce,  Belle 
and  the  lieutenant,  went  also  in  another  vehicle ;  and  Emily  and 
Gertrude,  according  to  their  original  intention,  took  a  different 
direction,  and,  driving  white  Charlie  in  the  old-fasl  ioned  biiggj. 
rsjoiced  in  their  quiet  indepeadence. 
24* 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


Sporting  at  will,  and  moulding  sport  to  art, 
With  that  sad  holiness  —  the  human  heart. 

New  TiiioH. 

Akd  now  days  and  even  weeks  passed  on,  and  no  marked  event 
fco3k  place  in  Mr.  Graham's  household.  The  weather  became  in- 
tensely  warm,  and  no  more  walks  and  drives  were  planned.  The 
lieutenant  left  the  neighboring  city,  which  was  at  this  season 
nearly  deserted  by  the  friends  of  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  nieces; 
and  Isabel,  who  could  neither  endure  with  patience  excessive 
h-^at  or  want  of  society,  grew  more  irritable  and  fretful  than 
ever. 

To  Kitty,  however,  these  summer-days  were  fraught  with  inter- 
est. Mr.  Bruce  remained  in  the  neighborhood,  visited  constantly 
at  the  house,  and  exercised  a  marked  influence  upon  her  outward 
demeanor  and  her  inward  happiness,  which  were  changeable  and 
fluctuating  as  his  attentions  were  freely  bestowed  or  altogether 
suspended.  No  wonder  the  poor  girl  was  puzzled  to  understand 
one  whose  conduct  was  certainly  inexplicable  to  any  but  those 
initiated  into  his  motives.  Believing,  as  he  did,  that  Gertrude 
would  in  time  show  a  disposition  to  win  him  back,  he  was  anxious 
only  to  carry  his  addresses  to  Kitty  to  such  a  point  as  would 
excite  a  serious  alarm  in  the  mind  of  the  poor  protegee  of  the 
Otahanis,  who  dared  to  slight  his  proff'ered  advances.  Acting 
then  as  he  did  almost  wholly  with  reference  to  Gertrude,  it  was 
only  in  her  presence,  or  under  such  circumstances  that  he  was 
Bure  it  would  reach  her  ears,  that  he  manifested  a  marked  interest 
n  Kitty  ;  and  his  behavior  was,  therefore,  in  the  highest  degree 
jnequal,  leading  the  warm-hearted  Kitty  to  believe  one  moment 
that  be  felt  for  her  almost  the  tenderness  of  a  lover,  and  the  next 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


to  suffer  under  the  apprehension  of  having  unconsciously  wounded 
or  offended  him  bj  her  careless  gayetj  or  conversation.  Unfor- 
tunately,  too,  Mrs.  Graham  took  every  opportunity  to  tease  and 
congratulate  her  upon  her  conquest,  thereby  increasing  the  sim- 
ple girl's  confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  Mr.  Bruce's  admiration. 

Nor  were  Mr.  Bruce  and  Kitty  the  only  persons  who  found 
occasion  for  vexation  and  anxiety  in  this  matter.  Gertrude,  whose 
eyes  were  soon  opened  to  the  existing  state  of  things,  was  filled 
with  regret  and  apprehension  on  account  of  Kitty,  for  whoso 
peace  and  welfare  she  felt  a  tender  and  affectionate  concern.  The 
suspicions  to  which  Mr.  Bruce's  conduct  gave  rise,  during  the 
scenes  which  have  been  detailed,  were  soon  strengthened  into  con- 
victions  ;  for,  on  several  occasions,  after  he  had  been  offering 
Kitty  ostentatious  proofs  of  devotion,  he  thought  proper  to  test 
their  effect  upon  Gertrude  by  the  tender  of  some  attention  to 
herself;  more  than  intimating,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  had  it 
in  her  power  to  rob  Kitty  of  all  claim  upon  his  favor. 

Gertrude  availed  herself  of  every  opportunity  to  acquaint  him 
with  the  truth,  that  he  could  not  possibly  render  himself  more 
odious  in  her  eyes  than  by  the  use  of  sach  mean  attempts  to 
mortify  her  ;  but,  attributing  her  warmth  to  the  very  feeling  of 
jealousy  which  he  desired  to  excite,  the  selfish  young  man  perse- 
vered in  his  course  of  folly  and  wickedness.  As  he  only  proffered 
his  attentions,  and  made  no  offer  of  his  heart  and  hand,  Gertrude 
did  not  in  the  least  trust  his  professions  towards  herself,  consider- 
ing them  merely  as  intended,  if  possible,  to  move  her  from  her  firm 
and  consistent  course  of  behavior,  in  order  to  gratify  his  self-love. 
But  she  saw  plainly  that,  however  light  and  vain  his  motives 
might  be  in  her  own  case,  they  were  still  more  so  with  reference 
to  Kitty;  and  she  was  deeply  grieved  at  the  evident  unconscious^ 
ness  of  this  fact  which  the  simple  girl  constantly  exhibited. 

For,  strangely  enough,  Kitty,  having  quite  forgotten  that  she 
had  a  few  weeks  back  looked  upon  Gertrude  as  a  rival,  now  chose 
her  for  her  bosom  friend  and  confidant.  Her  aunt  was  too  coarse 
and  rough,  Belle  too  selfish  and  vain,  to  be  intrusted  with  little 
inatters  of  the  heart ;  and,  though  Kitty  had  no  idea  of  confessing 
her  partiality  for  Mr.  Bruce,  the  tiansparency  of  her  character 


284 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEk. 


was  such,  that  she  betrayed  her  secret  to  Gertrude  Tvithout  bem» 
in  the  least  aware  that  she  had  done  so.  Though  no  one  but  Ger- 
trude  appeared  to  observe  it,  Kitty  was  wonderfully  changed ;  — 
the  gay,  laughing,  careless  Kitty  had  now  her  fits  of  musing,  —  her 
sunny  face  was  subject  to  clouds,  that  flitted  across  it,  and  robbed 
it  of  all  its  brightness.  Now,  her  spirits  were  unnatui-ally  free 
and  lively ;  and  now,  she  wore  a  pensive  expression,  and,  stealth- 
ily  lifting  her  eyes,  fixed  them  anxiously  on  the  face  of  Mr. 
Bruce,  as  if  studying  his  temper  or  his  sentiments.  If  she  saw 
Gertrude  walking  in  the  garden,  or  sitting  alone  in  her  room, 
she  would  approach,  throw  her  arm  around  her,  lean  against  her 
shoulder,  and  talk  on  her  favorite  topic.  She  would  relate, 
with  a  mixtui-e  of  simplicity  and  folly,  the  complimentary 
speeches  and  polite  attentions  of  Mr.  Bruce ;  talk  about  him  for 
an  hour,  and  question  Gertrude  as  to  her  opinion  of  his  merits, 
and  the  sincerity  of  his  avowed  admiration  for  herself.  She 
would  Ultimate  her  perception  of  some  fault  possessed  by  him, 
who  was  in  her  eyes  abnost  perfection  ;  and  when  Gertrude  coin- 
cided with  her,  and  expressed  regret  at  the  evident  failing,  sha 
would  exhaust  a  great  amount  of  strength  and  ingenuity  in  her 
efforts  to  prove  that  they  were  both  mistaken  in  attributing  it  to 
him,  and  that,  if  he  had  a  fault,  it  was  in  reality  quite  the 
reverse.  She  would  ask  if  Gertrude  really  supposed  he  meant  all 
he  said,  and  add  that  of  course  she  did  n't  believe  he  did,  —  it  was 
all  nonsense.  And  if  Gertrude  embraced  the  opporttmity  to  avow 
the  same  opinion,  and  declare  that  it  was  not  best  to  trust  all  his 
high-flown  flatteries,  poor  Kitty's  face  would  fall,  and  she  would 
proceed  to  give  her  reasons  for  sometimes  thinking  he  was  sincere, 
he  had  such  a  tmthful,  earnest  way  of  speaking. 

It  was  no  use  to  throw  out  hints,  or  try  to  establish  safeguards, 
Kitty  was  completely  infiituated.  At  last  Mr.  Bruce  thought 
proper  to  try  Gertrude's  firmness  by  offering  to  her  acceptance  a 
rich  ring.  Not  a  little  surprised  at  his  presumption,  she  declined 
it  without  hesitation  or  ceremony,  and  the  next  day  saw  it  on  the- 
finger  of  Kittj ,  who  was  eager  to  give  an  account  of  its  presenta- 
tion 

Ani  did  you  accept  it  ? "  asked  Gertrude,  with  suA  a  look  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Rstcnishment,  tiat  Kitty  observed  it,  and  evaded  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  having  done  so,  by  saying,  with  a  blushing  countenance, 
that  she  aOTeed  to  wear  it  a  little  while. 

"  I  would  n't,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because,  in  the  first  place,  I  do  not  think  it  is  in  good  taste  to 
receive  rich  gifts  from  gentlemen;  and  then,  again,  if  strangers 
notice  it,  you  mxay  be  subjected  to  unpleasant,  significant  remarks." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  it :  "  asked  Kitty. 

"  I  should  give  it  back." 

Kitty  looked  very  undecided ;  but,  on  reflection,  concluded  to 
ofier  it  to  Mr.  Bruce,  and  tell  him  what  Gertrude  said.  She  did 
so,  and  that  gentleman,  little  appreciating  Gertrude's  motives,  and 
believing  her  only  desirous  of  making  difiiculty  between  him  and 
Kitty,  jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  her  heart  was  won  at  last, 
and  that  his  triumph  would  now  be  complete.  He  was  disap. 
pointed,  therefore,  when,  on  his  next  meeting  with  her,  she 
treated  him,  as  she  had  invariably  done  of  late,  with  cool  civility ; 
indeed,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  more  insensible  than  ever  to 
his  attractions ;  and,  hastily  quitting  the  house,  much  to  the  dis- 
tress of  Kitty  (who  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  thinking  over 
everything  she  had  done  and  said  which  could  by  any  possibility 
have  given  ofience),  he  sought  his  old  haunt  under  the  pear-tree, 
ind  gave  himself  up  to  the  consideration  of  a  weighty  question. 

Seldom  did  Ben  Bruce  feel  called  upon  to  take  serious  views  of 
any  subject ;  seldom  was  he  accustomed  to  rally  and  marshal  the 
powers  of  his  mind,  and  deliberately  weigh  the  two  sides  of  an 
argument.  Living,  as  he  did,  with  no  higher  aim  than  the  pro™ 
moting  of  his  own  selfish  gratification,  he  had  been  wont  to  a  vail 
himself  of  every  opportunity  for  amusement  and  indulgence,  and 
even  to  bring  mean  and  petty  artifice  to  the  furtherance  of  his 
plans.  Possessed,  as  he  was,  notwithstanding  his  narrow  mind,  with 
what  is  often  called  "  a  good  look-out,"  he  was  rarely  cheated  or 
defrauded  of  his  rights.  He  knew  the  value  of  his  money  and 
position  in  life,  and  never  suffered  himself  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
designs  of  those  who  hoped  -o  reap  a  benefit  from  his  companion* 
ship     Selj'Sacrifice,  too,  was  a  thing  of  which  he  Lad  no  expo 


286 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


rience,  and  witb  wWcli,  as  seen  in  others,  he  felt  no  sympathy 
Now,  howe7er,  a  crisis  had  arrived  when  his  own  interests  an*'' 
wishes  cla.sh3d;  when  necessity  demanded  that  one  should  be 
immolated  at  the  shrine  of  the  other,  and  a  choice  must  be  made 
between  the  two.  It  was  certainly  a  matter  which  claimed  deep 
deliberation  ;  and  if  Ben  Bruce,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
devoted  a  whole  afternoon  to  careful  thought,  and  an  accurate 
measurement  of  opposing  forces,  the  occurrence  must  be  attrib- 
uted to  the  fact  that  he  was  making  up  his  mind  on  the  most 
important  question  that  ever  yet  had  agitated  it. 

"  Shall  I,"  thought  he,  "  conclude  to  marry  this  poor  girl  ? 
Shall  I,  who  am  master  of  a  handsome  fortune,  and  have  addi- 
tional expectations,  forego  the  prospect  they  aflFord  me  of  making 
a  brilliant  alliance,  and  condescend  to  share  my  wealth  and  sta- 
tion in  society  with  this  adopted  child  of  the  Grahams ;  who,  in 
Bpite  of  her  poverty,  will  not  grant  me  a  smile  even,  except  at 
the  price  of  all  my  possessions  ?  If  she  were  one  atom  less  charm- 
ing, I  would  disappoint  her,  after  all !  I  wonder  how  she 'd  fee 
if  I  should  marry  Kitty  !  I  daresay  I  never  should  have  the  sat- 
isfaction of  knowing ;  for  she 's  so  proud  that  she  would  come  to 
my  wedding,  for  aught  I  know,  bend  her  slender  neck  as  grace- 
fully as  ever,  and  say,  '  Good-evening,  Mr  Bruce'  as  politely  and 
calmly  as  she  does  now,  every  time  I  go  to  the  house  !  It  pro- 
vokes me  to  see  how  a  poor  girl  like  that  carries  herself.  But,  as 
Mrs.  Bruce,  I  should  be  proud  of  that  manner,  certainly.  I 
wonder  how  I  ever  got  in  love  with  her  ; —  I 'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
She  isn't  handsome;  at  least,  mother  thinks  she  isn't,  and  so 
does  Belle  Clinton.  But,  then  again,  Lieutenant  Osborne  noticed 
her  the  minute  she  came  into  the  room  ;  and  there 's  Fan  raves 
ibout  her  beauty.  I  don't  know  what  I  think  myself;  I  believe 
'^he's  bewitched  me,  so  that  I'm  not  capable  of  judging;  but,  if 
it  is  n't  beauty,  it  is  because  it 's  something  more  than  mere  good 
looks." 

Thus  he  soliloquized ;  and  as,  every  time  he  revolved  the  sub- 
jec'-,  he  commenced  by  dwelling  upon  the  immense  sacrifice  he  was 
making,  and  ended  with  reflections  upon  Gertrude's  charnAs,  it 
may  well  b'^  supposed  that  he  ultimately  came  to  the  conclusion 


THE  LAMPLIGIjlTER. 


287 


that  he  sliould  suffer  less  by  laying  his  fortune  at  her  feet  than 
by  the  endeavor  to  enjoy  that  fortune  without  her.    For  a  few 
days  after  he  arrived  at  a  resolve  on  this  point,  he  had  no  oppor- 
tunity  to  address  a  word  to  Gertrude,  who  was  now  doubly  anx- 
ious to^ avoid  him,  and  spent  nearly  the  whole  day  above  stairs 
except  when,  at  Emily's  request,  she  accompanied  her  for  a  shor? 
time  into  the  parlor ;  and  even  then  she  took  pains,  under  som« 
pretext  or  other,  to  remain  close  by  the  side  of  her  blind  friend 
^  About  this  time,  Mrs.  Graham  and  Mrs.  JBruce,  with  their  fami 
.ies,  received  cards  for  a  levee  to  be  held  at  the  house  of 
acquaintance  nearly  five  miles  distant.    It  was  on  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage  of  a  schoolmate  of  Isabel's,  and  both  she  and 
Kitty  were  desirous  to  be  present.    Mrs.  Bruce,  who  had  a  close 
carriage,  invited  both  the  cousins  to  accompany  her  ;  and,  as  Mr. 
Graham's  carryall,  when  closed,  would  only  accommodate  himself 
and  lady,  the  proposal  was  gladly  acceded  to. 

The  prospect  of  a  gay  assembly  and  an  opportunity  for  display 
revived  Isabel's  drooping  spirits  and  energy.  Her  rich  evening 
dresses  were  brought  out  for  the  selection  of  the  most  suitable 
and  becoming;  and  as  she  stood  before  her  mirror,  and  tried  on 
first  one  wreath  and  then  another,  and  looked  so  beautiful  in 
3ach  that  it  was  difficult  to  make  a  choice,  Kitty,  who  stood  by, 
eagerly  endeavoring  to  win  her  attention,  and  obtain  her  advice  con- 
cerning  the  style  and  color  most  desirable  for  herself,  gave  up  in 
despair,  and  ran  off  to  consult  Gertrude. 

She  found  her  reading  in  her  own  room ;  but,  on  Kitty's  abrupt 
entrance,  she  laid  down  her  book,  and  gave  her  undivided  attention 
to  the  subject  which  was  under  discussion. 

"Gertrude,"  said  Kitty,  "what  shall  I  wear  this  evening ^ 
1  Ve  been  trying  to  get  Belle  to  tell  me,  but  she  never  will  speak 
a  word,  or  hear  what  I  ask  her,  wh3n  she's  thinking  about  hek* 
own  dress !  —  I  declare,  she 's  dreadfully  selfish ! " 
"  Who  advises  her  ?    asked  Gertrude. 

"0,  nobody;  she  always  decides  for  herself;  but  then  she  has 
BO  much  taste,  and  I  have  n't  the  least  in  the  world !  —  So,  dc  tel. 
me,  Gertrude,  \that  had  I  better  wear  to-nig]it  ?  " 


288 


THE  LAM1?LIGHTER. 


♦*  I 'm  the  last  person  you  should  ask,  Kitty ;  I  nev(r  went  to  a 
tashionable  party  in  my  life." 

That  does  n't  make  any  difference.  I 'm  sure,  if  you  did  go, 
you 'd  look  better  than  any  of  us ;  and  I 'm  not  afraid  to  trust 
to  your  opinion,  for  1  never  in  my  life  saw  you  wear  anything 
that  did  n't  look  genteel ;  —  even  your  gingham  morning-gown 
has  a  sort  of  stylish  air." 

"Stop,  stop,  Kitty!  you  are  going  too  far;  you  must  keep 
within  bounds,  if  you  want  me  to  believe  you." 

Well,  then,"  said  Kitty,  "  to  say  nothing  of  yourself  (for  I  know 
you're  superior  to  flattery,  Gertrude,  —  somebody  told  me  so), 
who  furnishes  Miss  Emily's  wardrobe  ?   Who  selects  her  dresses  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  so,  lately,  but  —  " 

"  I  thought  so  !  I  thought  so  !  "  interrupted  Kitty.  "  I  knew 
poor  Miss  Emily  was  indebted  to  you  for  always  looking  so  nice 
and  so  beautiful." 

"No,  indeed,  Kitty,  you  are  mistaken;  I  have  never  seen 
Emily  better  dressed  than  she  was  the  first  time  I  met  her ;  and 
her  beauty  is  not  borrowed  from  art  —  it  is  all  her  own." 

"  0,  I  know  she  is  lovely,  and  everybody  admires  her;  but  no 
one  can  suppose  she  would  take  pains  to  wear  such  pretty  things, 
and  put  them  on  so  gracefully,  just  to  please  herself." 

"  It  is  not  done  merely  to  please  herself ;  it  was  to  please  her 
father  that  Emily  first  made  the  exertion  to  dress  with  taste  as 
well  as  neatness.  I  have  heard  that,  for  some  time  after  she  lost 
her  eye-sight,  she  was  disposed  to  be  very  careless ;  but,  having 
accidentally  discovered  that  it  was  an  additional  cause  of  sorrow 
to  him,  she  roused  herself  at  once,  and,  with  Mrs.  Ellis'  assistance 
contrived  always  afterwards  to  please  him  in  that  particular. 
But  you  observe,  Kitty,  she  never  wears  anything  showy  c»r  con- 
Bpicuous." 

"  No,  indeed,  — that  is  what  I  like  ;  but,  Gertrude,  has  r't  she 

always  been  blind  ?  " 

"  No ;  until  she  was  sixteen  she  had  beautiful  eyes,  and  couU 
Boe  as  well  as  you  can." 

"  What  happened  to  her  ?    How  did  she  lose  them  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


2% 


*  Did  n't  you  ever  ask  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  —  liow  queer  ! 

I  heard  that  «5he  did  n't  like  to  speak  of  it." 
'^Eut  she  wouM  have  told  you  ;  she  half  worships  you." 
"  If  elie  had  wished  me  to  know,  she  would  have  told  without 
my  asking." 

Kitty  stared  at  Gertrude,  wondering  much  at  such  unusual 
«3elicacy  and  couDideration,  and  instinctively  admiring  a  forbear- 
aoce  of  which  she  was  conscious  she  should  herself  have  been 
mi-apable. 

*  But,  your  dress  !  "  said  Gertrude,  smiling  at  Kitty's  abstrac- 
tion . 

"  0,  yes  !  I  had  almost  forgotten  what  I  came  here  for,"  said 
Kitty.  "What  shall  it  be,  then,  — thick  or  thin;  pink,  blue,  or 
white  ?  " 

"  What  has  Isabel  decided  upon  ?  " 

"Blue,  —  a  rich  blue  silk;  that  is  her  favorite  color,  always?, 
but  it  does  n't  become  me."- 

"  No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  Gertrude ;  "but  come,  Kitty,  we 
will  go  to  your  room  and  see  the  dresses,  and  I  will  s:ive  my 
opinion." 

Kitty's  wardrobe  having  been  inspected;  and  Gertrude  having 
expressed  her  preference  for  a  thin  and  flowing  material,  especially 
ill  the  summer  season,  a  delicate  white  crape  was  fixed  upon.  And 
now  there  was  a  new  difficulty ;  among  all  her  head-dresses,  none 
proved  satisfactory,  —  all  were  more  or  less  defaced,  and  none  of 
them  to  be  compared  with  a  new  and  exquisite  wreath  which 
Isabel  was  arranging  among  her  curls. 

"  I  cannot  wear  any  of  them,"  said  Kitty,  "  they  look  so  meaci 
by  the  side  of  Isabel's ;  but,  0  !  "  exclaimed  she,  glancing  at  a 
box  which  lay  on  the  dressing-table,  "  these  are  just  what  I  should 
like  !  0,  Isabel,  where  did  you  get  these  beautiful  carnations  ?  " 
and  slid  took  up  some  flowers,  which  were,  indeed,  a  rare  imitation 
of  nature,  and,  displaying  them  to  Gertrude,  added  that  they  were 
just  what  she  wanted. 

"0,  Kitty,"  said  Isabel,  angrily,  turning  away  from  the  giass, 
25 


290 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


and  obsei  ving  what  her  cousin  had  in  her  hand,  "  don't  touch  my 
flowers!  you  will  spoil  them!"  and,  snatching  them  from  her. 
she  replaced  them  in  the  box,  opened  a  drawer  in  her  bureau 
and,  having  deposited  them  there,  took  the  precaution  to  lock 
them  up  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket,  —  an  action  which  Ger- 
trude witnessed  with  astonishment,  not  unmingled  with  indigna- 
ti  Dn. 

"  Kitty,"  said  she,  I  will  arrange  a  wreath  of  natural  flowers 
tor  you,  if  you  wish." 

Will  you,  Gertrude?"  said  the  disappointed  and  provoked 
Kitty.  "  O,  that  will  be  dehghtful !  I  should  like  it,  of  all  things! 
And,  Isabel,  you  cross  old  miser,  you  can  keep  all  your  wreaths 
to  yourself!    It  is  a  pity  you  can't  wear  two  at  a  time  ! " 

True  to  her  promise,  Gertrude  prepared  a  head-dress  for  Kitty ; 
and  so  tastefully  did  she  mingle  the  choicest  productions  of  the 
garden,  that,  when  Isabel  saw  her  cousin  arrayed  under  a  more 
careful  and  affectionate  superintendence  than  she  often  enjoyed, 
she  felt,  notwithstanding  her  own  proud  consciousness  of  superior 
beauty,  a  sharp  pang  of  jealousy  of  Kitty,  and  dislike  to  Gertrude. 

It  had  been  no  small  source  of  annoyance  to  Isabel,  who  could 
not  endure  to  be  outshone,  that  Kitty  had  of  late  been  the  object 
of  marked  attention  to  Mr.  Bruce,  while  she  herself  had  been 
entirely  overlooked.  Not  that  she  felt  any  partiality  for  the  gen- 
tleman whom  Kitty  was  so  anxious  to  please  ;  but  the  dignity 
conferred  on  her  cousin  by  his  admiration,  the  interest  the  affair 
awakened  in  her  aunt,  and  the  meaning  looks  of  Mrs.  Bruce,  all 
made  her  feel  herself  of  second-rate  importance,  and  rendered  her 
more  eager  than  ever  to  supplant,  in  general  society,  the  compar- 
atively unpretending  Kitty.  Thereibre,  when  Mrs.  Graham  com- 
plimented the  latter  on  her  unusually  attractive  appearance,  and 
declared  that  somebody  would  this  night  be  more  charmed  than 
ever,  Isabel  curled  her  lip  with  mingled  disdain  and  defiance 
while  the  blushing  Kitty  turned  to  Gertrude  and  whispered  in 
her  ear,  "  Mr.  Bruce  likes  white ;  he  said  so,  the  other  day, 
«vhen  you  passed  through  the  rooia  dressed  in  your  mulled 
muslin." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


ifEow.  than,  that  I  have  supported  my  pretensions  to  your  hand  ie  the 
way  that  best  suited  my  character  Ivajjhoe. 

Emily  was  not  well  this  evening.    It  was  often  the  case,  lately 
that  headache,  unwonted  weariness,  or  a  nervous  shrinking  from 
noise  and  excitement,  sent  her  to  her  own  room,  and  sometimes  led 
her  to  seek  her  couch  at  an  early  hour.    After  Mrs.  Graham  and 
her  nieces  had  gone  down  stairs  to  await  Mr.  Graham's  pleasure 
and  Mrs.  Bruce's  arrival,  Gertrude  returned  to  Emily,  whom  she 
had  left  only  a  short  time  before,  and  found  her  suffering  more 
than  usual  from  what  she  termed  her  troublesome  head.    She  was 
easily  induced  to  seek  the  only  infallible  cure— sleep;  and 
Gertrude,  seating  herself  on  the  bed-side,  as  she  was  frequently  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  bathed  her  temples  until  she  fell  into  a  quiet 
slumber.    The  noise  of  Mrs.  Bruce's  carriage,  coming  and  goin<., 
seemed  to  disturb  her  a  little ;  but  in  a  few  moments  more  she  wrs 
so  sound  asleep  that,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  departed,  the 
loud  voice  of  the  latter,  giving  her  orders  to  one  of  the  servants 
did  not  startle  her  in  the  least.    Gertrude  sat  some  time  lonc^er 
without  changing  her  position  ;  then,  quietly  rising  and  arrangino 
everything  for  the  night,  according  to  Emily's  well-known  wishes" 
she  closed  the  door  gently  behind  her,  sought  a  book  in  her  own  room 
and,  entering  the  cool  and  vacant  parlor,  seated  herself  at  a  tabk' 
.  V  enjoy  the  now  rare  opportunity  for  perfect  stillness  and  repose.  ' 

Either  her  own  thoughts,  however,  proved  more  interesting  thau 
the  volume  she  held,  or,  it  may  be,  the  insects,  attracted  '  v  the  • 
ongh<;  lamp,  annoyed  her;  or,  the  beauty  of  the  evening  won  her 
observi:,tion  ;  for  she  soon  forsook  her  seat  at  the  table,  Tnd,  goin« 
towards  the  open  -lass-doors,  placed  herself  near  them,  and,  leaj 
ing  he/  head  upon  her  hand,  became  absorbed  in  meditation 


292 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


She  had  not  long  sat  tbis  when  she  heard  a  foot -step  m  th« 
room,  and,  turning,  saw  Mr.  Bruce  beside  her.  She  started,  and 
exclaimed,  Mr.  Bruce !  is  it  possible  ?  I  thought  jou  had  gone 
ic  the  wed  ling." 

'  No,  there  were  grsater  attractions  for  me  at  home.  Could 
you  believe,  IMiss  Gertrude,  I  should  find  any  pleasure  in  a  party 
which  did  not  include  yourself  ? 

"  I  certainly  should  not  have  the  vanity  to  suppose  the  reverse," 
replied  Grertrude. 

"  I  wish  you  had  a  little  more  vanity.  Miss  Gertrude.  Perhaps 
then  you  would  sometimes  believe  what  I  say." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  the  candor  to  acknowledge,  Mr.  Bruce, 
that,  without  that  requisite,  one  would  find  it  impossible  to  put 
faith  in  your  fair  speeches.  " 

"  I  acknowledge  no  such  thing.  I  only  say  to  you  what  any 
other  girl  but  yourself  would  be  willing  enough  to  believe ;  but 
how  shall  I  convince  you  that  I  am  serious,  and  wish  to  be  so 
understood  ?  How  shall  I  persuade  you  to  converse  freely  with 
me,  and  no  longer  shun  my  society  ? " 

"  By  addressing  me  with  simple  truthfulness,  and  sparing  me 
those  words  and  attentions  which  I  have  endeavored  to  convince 
you  are  unacceptable  to  me  and  unworthy  of  yourself" 

^'  But  I  have  a  meaning,  Gertrude,  a  deep  meaning.  I  hava 
been  trying  for  several  days  to  find  an  opportunity  to  tell  you  of 
my  resolverand  you  inust  listen  to  me  now;"  for  he  saw  her 
change  color  and  look  anxious  and  uneasy.  "  You  must  give  me 
an  answer  at  once,  and  one  that  will,  I  trust,  be  favorable  to  my 
wishes.  You  like  plain  speaking ;  and  I  will  be  plain  enough,  now 
that  my  mind  is  made  up.  My  relatives  and  friends  may  talk 
and  wonder  as  much  as  they  please  at  my  choosing  a  wife  who 
has  neither  money  nor  family  to  boast  cf ;  but  I  have  determined 
to  defy  them  all,  and  offer,  without  hesitation,  to  share  my  pros- 
pects  with  you.  After  all,,  what  is  money  good  for,  if  it  does  n^t 
make  a  man  independent  to  do  as  he  pleases  ?  And,  as  to  the 
world,  I  cl  :u*t  see  but  you  can  hold  your  head  as  liiiih  as  any])ody, 
Gcrtiud<i    so,  if  y?u  'vc  no  objection  to  make,  wo  Ul  play  at  crost 


CHE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


29.1 


purposes  no  longer,  ind  consider  the  thing  settled;  "  and  he  en^ 
deavored  to  take  her  hand. 

But  Gertrude  drew  back ;  the  color  flushed  her  cheeks  and  hei 
eyes  glistened  as  she  fixed  them  upon  his  face  with  an  expression 
of  astonishment  and  pride  that  could  not  be  mistaken. 

The  calm,  penetrating  look  of  those  dark  eyes  spoke  volumes, 
and  Mr.  Bruce  replied  to  their  inquiring  gaze  in  these  words  :  "  I 
hope  you  are  not  displeased  at  my  frankness." 

"  With  your  frankness,"  said  Gertrude,  calmly;  "  no,  that  is  a 
thing  that  never  displeases  me.  But  what  have  I  unconsciously 
done  to  inspire  you  with  so  much  confidence  that,  while  you  defend 
yourself  for  defying  the  wishes  of  your  friends,  you  hardly  give 
me  a  voice  in  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Bruce,  in  an  apologizing  tone  ;  "  but  I  thought 
you  had  labored  under  the  impression  that  I  was  disposed  to  trifle 
with  j^our  affections,  and  had  therefore  kept  aloof  and  maintained 
a  distance  tovfards  me  which  you  would  not  have  done  had  you 
known  how  much  I  was  in  earnest ;  but,  believe  me,  I  only  ad- 
mired you  the  more  for  behaving  with  so  much  dignity,  and  if 
I  have  presumed  upon  your  favor,  you  must  forgive  me.  I  shall 
be  only  too  happy  to  receive  a  favorable  answer  from  you." 

The  expression  of  wounded  pride  vanished  from  Gertrude's 
face.  "  He  knows  no  better,"  thought  she ;  I  should  pity  his 
vanity  and  ignorance,  and  sympathize  in  his  disappointment ; "  and, 
in  disclaiming,  with  a  positiveness  which  left  no  room  for  further 
self-deception,  any  interest  in  Mr.  Bruce  beyond  that  of  an  old 
acquaintance  and  sincere  well-wisher,  she  nevertheless  softened  her 
refusal  by  the  choice  of  the  mildest  language,  and  terms  the  least 
likely  to  grieve  or  mortify  him.  She  felt,  as  every  true  \^oman 
must  under  similar  circumstances,  that  her  gratitude  and  considera- 
tion  were  due  to  the  man  who,  however  little  she  might  esteem  ki?/i, 
h:A  paid  her  the  highest  honor ;  and,  though  her  regret  in  the  mat- 
ter  was  somewhat  tempered  by  the  thought  of  Kitty,  and  the. 
strangeness  of  Mr.  Bruce's  cond  ict  towards  her,  now  rendered 
doubly  inexplicable,  she  did  not  permit  that  reflection,  even,  tc 
prevent  her  from  main  .aining  the  demeanor,  not  only  of  a  per* 
25=^ 


294 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


feet  lady,  h\.t  one  ^Nho,  in  giving  pain  to  another,  iamsnts  the 
necessity  of  s:)  doing. 

She  almost  felt,  however,  as  if  her  thoughtfulne&s  for  his 
fecimgs  had  been  thrown  away,  when  she  perceived  the  spirit  in 
which  he  received  her  refusal. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  he,  "  you  are  either  trifling  with  me  or  youi 
self.  If  you  are  still  disposed  to  coquet  with  me,  I  desire  to  have 
it  understood  that  I  shall  not  humble  myself  to  urge  you  further ; 
but  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  are  so  far  forgetful  of  your  own 
interests  as  deliberately  to  refuse  such  a  fortune  as  mine,  I  thmk 
it 's  a  pity  you  have  n't  got  some  friend  to  advise  you.  Such  a 
chance  does  n't  occur  every  day,  especially  to  poor  schoolmis- 
tresses ;  and  if  you  are  so  foolish  as  to  overlook  it,  I  '11  venture  to 
say  you  '11  never  have  another." 

Gertrude's  old  temper  rose  at  this  insulting  language,  beat  and 
throbbed  in  her  chafed  spirit,  and  even  betrayed  itself  in  the  tips  of 
her  fingers,  which  trembled  as  they  rested  on  the  table  near  which 
she  stood  (having  risen  as  Mr.  Bruce  spoke) ;  but,  though  this  was 
an  unlooked-for  and  unwonted  rebellion  of  an  old  enemy,  her  feel- 
ings had  too  long  been  under  strict  regulation  to  yield  to  the  blast, 
however  sudden,  and  she  replied  in  a  tone  which,  though  slightly 
agitated,  was  far  from  being  angry,  "  Allowing  I  could  so  far 
forget  myself,  Mr.  Bruce,  I  would  not  do  you  such  an  injustice 
as  to  marry  you  for  your  fortune.  I  do  not  despise  wealth,  for  I 
know  the  blessing  it  may  often  be ;  but  my  afiections  cannot  be 
bought  with  gold  ;  "  and  as  she  spoke  she  moved  towards  the 
door. 

''Stay!"  said  Mr.  Bruce,  catching  her  hand;  "listen  to  n:e 
cne  moment ;  let  me  ask  you  one  question.  Are  you  jealous  of 
ley  late  attentions  to  another  ?  " 

No,"  answered  Gertrude  ;  "  but  I  confess  I  have  not  under- 
stood your  motives." 

"  Did  you  think,"  asked  he,  eagerly,  "that  I  cared  for  that 
eilly  Kitty  ?  Did  you  believe,  for  a  moment,  that  I  had  any 
other  desire  than  to  show  you  that  my  devotion  was  acceptable 
elsewhere  ?  No,  upon  my  word,  I  never  had  the  least  particle 
of  regard  for  her    my  heart  has  been  yours  all  the  time,  and  1 


IHf!  LAMPLIGHTER. 


29^ 


only  danced  attendance  upon  her  in  hopes  to  win  a  glance  froit 
you^  —  an  anxious  glance,  if  might  be.  0,  how  often  I  have  wished 
that  you  would  show  one  quarter  of  the  pleasure  that  she  did  in 
my  society ;  would  blush  and  smile  as  she  did ;  would  look  sad 
when  I  was  dull,  and  laugh  when  I  was  merry ;  so  that  I  might 
flatter  myself,  as  I  could  in  her  case,  that  your  heart  was  won 
But,  as  to  loving  her,  —  pooh  !  Mrs.  Graham's  poodle-dog  might 
as  well  try  to  rival  you  as  that  soft  —  " 

Stop  !  stop  ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "  for  my  sake,  if  not  for 
your  oivn !  0,  how  —  "  Si:e  could  say  no  more,  but,  sinking  into 
the  nearest  seat,  burst  into  tears,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands, 
as  had  been  her  habit  in  childhood,  wept  without  restraint. 

Mr.  Bruce  stood  by  in  utter  amazement ;  at  last  he  approached 
h3r,  and  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  what  have 
I  done?" 

It  was  some  minutes  before  she  could  reply  to  the  question ; 
then,  lifting  her  head,  and  tossing  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  she 
displayed  features  expressive  only  of  the  deepest  grief,  and  said.^ 
in  broken  accents,  "  What  have  you  done  ?  0,  how  can  you  ask  ? 
She  is  gentle,  and  amiable,  and  affectionate.  She  loves  every- 
body, and  trusts  everybody.  You  have  deceived  her,  and  I  was 
the  cause  of  it !    0,  how,  how  could  you  do  it !  " 

A  most  disconcerted  appearance  did  Ben  present  at  her  words 
and  hesitating  was  the  tone  in  which  he  muttered,  "  She  will  get 
over  it." 

Get  over  what  ?  "  said  Gertrude  ;  "  her  love  for  you  ?  Per- 
haps so ;  I  know  not  how  deep  it  is.  But,  think  of  her  happy, 
trusting  nature,  and  how  it  has  been  betrayed  !  Think  how  she 
believed  your  flattering  words,  and  how  hollow  they  were,  all  the 
while  I  Think  how  her  confidence  has  been  abused  !  how  that 
fatherless  and  motherless  girl,  who  had  a  claim  to  the  sympathy 
A'  all  the  world,  has  been  taught  a  lesson  of  distrust !  " 
"  I  did  n't  think  you  would  take  it  so,"  said  Ben 
"  How  else  could  I  view  it  ?  asked  Gertrude.  *  Could  you 
expect  tlctc  { uch  a  course  would  win  my  respect  ?  " 

"  You  take  it  very  seriously,  Gertrude ,  such  flirta<iioiu3  arc 
eommoi^  * ' 


29b 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK 


"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Gertrude.  "  To  mind,  un- 
versed in  the  ways  of  society,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  trifle  chrw 
with  a  human  heart.  Whether  Kitty  loves  you,  is  not  for 
me  to  say;  but  what  opinion  —  alas!  —  will  she  have  of  your 
sincerity  ?  " 

*  I  think  you  're  rather  hard.  Miss  Gertrude,  when  it  wa3  my 
»ove  for  you  that  prompted  my  conduct." 

Perhaps  I  am,  "  said  Gertrude.  It  is  not  my  place  to  cen 
»ure ;  I  speak  only  from  the  impulse  of  my  heart.  One  orphan 
girl's  warm  defence  of  another  is  but  natural.  Perhaps  she 
views  the  thing  lightly,  and  does  not  7ieed  an  advocate ;  but,  O, 
Mr.  Bruce,  do  not  think  so  meanly  of  my  sex  as  to  believe  that 
one  woman's  heart  can  be  won  to  love  and  reverence  by  the 
author  of  another's  betrayal !  She  were  less  than  woman  who 
could  be  so  false  to  her  sense  of  right  and  honor." 
"  Betrayal !  —  Nonsense  !  you  are  very  high-flown." 
"  So  much  so,  Mr.  Bruce,  that  half  an  hour  ago  I  could  have 
wept  that  you  should  have  bestowed  your  affection  where  it  met 
with  no  requital ;  and  if  now  I  weep  for  the  sake  of  her  whosp 
ears  have  listened  to  false  professions,  and  whose  peace  has,  to  say 
the  least,  been  threatened  on  my  account,  you  should  attribute 
it  to  the  fact  that  my  sympathies  have  not  been  exhausted  by 
contact  with  the  world." 

A  short  silence  ensued.  Ben  went  a  step  or  twa  towards  infl 
door,  then  stopped,  came  back,  and  said,  After  all,  Gertrude 
Flint,  I  believe  the  time  will  come  when  your  notions  will  gro^ 
less  romantic,  and  you  will  look  back  to  this  night  and  wish  you 
had  acted  differently.  You  will  find  out,  in  time,  that  this  is  a 
world  where  people  must  look  out  for  themselves." 

Immediately  upon  this  remark  he  left  the  room,  and  Gertrude 
heard  him  shut  the  hall-door  with  a  loud  bang  as  he  went  out. 

A  moment  after,  the  silence  that  ensued  was  disturbed  by  a 
vilight  sound,  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  deep  recess  in  tho 
window.  Gertrude  started,  and,  as  she  went  towards  the  spot 
heard  distinctly  a  smothered  sob.  She  lifted  a  drapcned  curtain, 
and  there,  upon  the  wide  window-seat,  her  head  bent  over  and 
buried  in  the  cushions,  and  her  little  slender  for  m  distorted  into  « 


• 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


297 


strange  and  forlorn  attitude,  —  such  as  might  be  seen  :ii  a  grioved 
child,  —  sat,  or  ratke^  crouched,  poor  Kitty  Eay.  The  crumpled 
folds  of  her  white  crape  dress,  her  withered  wreath,  —  which  had 
half  fallen  from  her  head,  and  hung  drooping  on  her  shoulders,  — 
her  disordered  hair,  and  b-r  little  hand  clinging  to  a  thick  cord 
connected  with  the  window-curtain,  all  added  to  the  appearanc,8 
of  extreme  distress. 

"  Kittj  ! "  cried  Gertrude,  at  once  recognizing  her,  ahhough  her 
face  was  hid. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Kitty  sprung  suddenly  from  ker 
recumbent  posture,  threw  herself  into  Gertrude's  arms,  laid  her 
head  upjn  her  shoulder,  and,  though  she  did  not,  could  not  weep, 
shook  and  trembled  with  an  agitation  which  was  perfectly  uncon- 
trollable.   Her  hand,  which  grasped  Gertrude's,  was  fearfully 
cold ;  her  eyes  seemed  fixed ;  and  occasionally,  at  intervals,  the 
same  hysterical  sound  which  had  at  first  betrayed  her  in  her 
hiding-place  alarmed  her  young  protector,  to  whom  she  clung  a<j 
.if  seized  with  sudden  fear.    Gertrude  supported  her  to  a  seat, 
and  then,  folding  the  slight  form  to  her  bosom,  chafed  the  cold 
hands,  and  again  and  again  kissing  the  rigid  lips,  succeeded  at 
last  in  restoring  her  to  something  like  composure.    For  an  hour 
she  lay  thus,  receiving  Gertrude's  caresses  with  evident  pleasure, 
and  now  and  then  returning  them  convulsively,  but  speaking 
no  word,  and  making  no  noise.    Gertrude,  with  the  truest  judg- 
ment  and  delicacy,  refrained  from  asking  questions,  or  recurring 
to  a  conversation  the  whole  of  which  had  been  thus  overheard 
and  comprehended ;  but,  patiently  waiting  until  Kitty  grew  more 
quiet  and  calm,  prepared  for  her  a  soothing  draught;  and  then, 
finding   her  completely  prostrated,  both  in  mind  and  body,' 
passed  her  arm  around  her  waist,  guided  her  up  stairs,  and, 
without  the  ceremony  of  an  invitation,  took  her  into  her  own 
room  where,  if  she  proved  wakeful,  she  would  be  spared  the 
wonder  and  scrutiny  of  Isabel.    Still  clinging  to  Gertrude,  the 
poor  girl,  to  whose  relief  tears  came  at  last,  sobbed  herself  to 
f^leep  ;  and  all  her  sufferings  were  for  a  time  forgotten  in  that 
oblivion  in  which  childhood  and  youth  fini  a  temporary  rest,  ani 
often  a  healing  balm  to  pain. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


It  wa3  otherwls:,  however,  with  Gertrude,  who,  though  of  nearly 
the  same  age  as  Kitty,  had  seen  too  much  trouble,  experienced 
too  much  care,  to  enjoy,  in  times  of  disquiet,  the  privilege  of 
sinkino^  easily  to  repose.  She  felt  under  the  necessity,  too,  of 
remaining  awake  until  Isabel's  return,  that  she  might  inform  her 
what  had  becomt  of  Kitty,  whom  she  would  be  sure  to  miss  from 
the  room  which  they  occupied  in  common.  She  seated  herself, 
therefore,  at  the  window,  to  watch  for  her  return ;  and  was  pained 
to  observe  that  Kitty  tossed  restlessly  on  her  pillows,  and  occa- 
sionally muttered  in  her  sleep,  as  if  distressed  by  uneasy  dreams. 
It  was  past  midnight  when  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  niece  returned 
ho^e,  and  Gertrude  went  immediately  to  inform  the  latter  that 
her  cousin  was  asleep  in  her  room.  The  noise  of  the  carriages, 
however,  had  awakened  the  sleeper,  and  when  Gertrude  returned 
she  was  rubbing  her  eyes,  and  try?ng  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

Suddenly  the  recollection  of  the  scene  of  the  evening  flashed 
upon  her,  and,  with  a  deep  sigh,  she  exclaimed,  "  0,  Gertrude  !  I 
have  been  dreaming  of  Mr.  Bruce  '  Should  you  have  thought 
he  would  have  treated  me  so  ?  " 

"  No,  I  should  not,"  said  Gertrude ;  *'  but  I  would  n't  dream 
about  him,  Kitty,  nor  think  of  him  any  more;  we  will  both  go  to 
sleep  and  forget  him." 

"  It  is  different  with  you,"  said  Kitty,  with  simplicity.  "  He 
loves  you,  and  you  do  not  care  for  him  ;  but  I  —  I  —  "  Here  her 
feelings  overpowered  her,  and  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

Gertrude  approached,  laid  her  hand  kindly  upon  the  head  of 
the  poor  girl,  and  finished  the  sentence  for  her.  "  You  have  such 
a  large  heart,  Kitty,  that  he  found  some  place  there,  perhaps ;  but 
it  is  too  good  a  heart  to  be  shared  by  the  mean  and  base.  You 
must  think  no  more  of  him  —  he  is  not  worthy  of  your  regard." 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Kitty ;  "  I  am  silly,  just  as  he  said." 

"No,  you  are  not,"  said  Gertrude,  encouragingly ;  "and  you 
must  prove  it  to  him." 

"H<'w?" 

"  Lv^t  him  see  that,  with  all  her  softness,  Kitty  Eay  is  strong 
and  brave  ;  that  she  has  ceased  to  believe  his  fiattery,  and  values 
his  professions  ut  just  what  they  are  wort!:." 


THE  LAMPLiailTJSU. 


you  help  me,  Gertrude  ?  You  are  m j  best  frien  i ;  you 
t-ook  my  part,  and  told  him  how  wicked  he  had  been  to  me.  May 
I  come  to  you  for  comfort  when  I  can't  make  believe  happy  any 
longer  to  him,  and  my  aunt,  and  Isabel  ?  " 

Gertrude's  fervent  embrace  wa.s  assurance  enough  of  her  coop 
eration  and  sympathy. 

"  You  will  be  as  bright  and  happy  as  ever  in  a  few  weeks, 
said  she ;  "  you  will  soor  cease  to  care  for  a  person  whom  you 
no  longer  respect." 

KiLi^  disclaimed  the  possibility  of  ever  being  happy  again ;  but 
Gertrude,  though  herself  a  novice  in  the  ways  of  the  human 
heart,  was  much  more  sanguine  and  hopeful.  She  saw  that 
Kitty's  violent  outburst  of  sobs  and  tears  was  like  a  child's  im- 
petuous grief,  and  suspected  that  the  deepest  recesses  of  her 
nature  were  safe,  and  unendangered  by  the  storm. 

She  felt  a  deep  compassion  for  her,  however,  and  many  fears 
lest  she  would  be  wanting  in  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  behave 
wi+h  dignity  and  womanly  pride  in  her  future  intercourse  with 
Mr.  Bruce,  and  would  also  expose  herself  to  the  ridicule  of  Isabel, 
and  the  contempt  of  her  aunt,  by  betraying  in  her  looks  and 
behavior  her  recent  trying  and  mortifying  experience. 

Fortunately,  the  first-mentioned  trial  was  spared  her,  by  Mr. 
Bruce's  immediately  absenting  himself  from  the  house,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days  leaving  home  for  the  remainder  of  the 
summer ;  and,  as  this  circumstance  involved  both  his  own  and 
Mrs.  Graham's  family  in  doubt  and  wonder  as  to  the  cause  of  his 
sudden  departure,  Kitty's  outward  trials  consisted  chiefly  in  the 
continued  and  repeated  questionings  from  her  aunt  and  cousin,  to 
which  she  was  incessantly  exposed,  as  to  her  share  in  this  sudden 
and  unlooked-for  occurrence.  Had  she  refused  him  ?  Had  she 
quarrelled  with  him  ? —  and  why  ? 

Kitty  denied  that  she  had  done  either ;  but  she  was  not  believed 
and  the  affair  remained  a  strange  and  interesting  mystery. 

Both  Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel  were  aware  that  Kitty  s  refus- 
ing at  the  last  moment  to  attend  the  wedding  levee  was  owing 
to  her  having  accidentally  learned,  just  before  the  carriage  drovQ 
to  the  icx3r,  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  not  fc®  be  of  the  party  •  |nd,  aa 


BOO 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


they  wrung  from  her  the  confession  that  he  had  passed  a  part  of 
the  evening  at  the  house,  they  came  to  the  very  natural  conclu- 
sion that  some  misunderstanding  had  arisen  between  the  supposed 
lovers. 

Isabel  was  too  well  acquainted  with  Kitty's  sentiments  to 
believe  she  had  voluntarily  relinquished  an  admirer  who  had  evi- 
dently been  highly  prized  ;  and  she  also  saw  that  the  sensitive  girl 
winced  under  every  allusion  to  the  deserter.  One  would  have 
thought,  then,  that  common  affection  and  delicacy  would  have 
f aught  her  to  forbear  any  reference  to  the  painful  subject.  But 
this  was  not  the  case.  She  made  Mr.  Bruce  and  his  strange  dis- 
appearance her  almost  constant  topic ;  and,  on  occasion  of  the 
slightest  difference  or  disagreement  arising  between  herself  and 
Kitty,  she  silen«  ed  and  distressed  the  latter  by  some  pointed  and 
cutting  sarcasm  relative  to  her  late  love  affair.  Kitty  would 
then  seek  refuge  with  Gertrude,  relate  her  trials,  and  claim  her 
sympathy ;  and  she  not  only  found  in  her  a  friendly  listener  to  her 
woes,  but  invariably  acquired  in  her  society  greater  strength  and 
cheerfulness  than  she  could  elsewhere  rally  to  her  aid,  so  that  she 
became  gradually  dependent  upon  her  for  the  only  peace  she 
enjoyed ;  and  Gertrude,  who  felt  a  sincere  interest  in  the  girl 
who  had  been  on  her  account  subjected  to  such  cruel  deception, 
and  whose  drooping  spirits  and  pensive  countenance  spoke  touch- 
ingly  of  her  inner  sorrow,  spared  no  pains  to  enliven  her  sadness, 
divert  her  thoughts,  and  win  her  to  those  occupations  and  amuse- 
ments in  which  she  herself  had  often  found  a  relief  from  preying 
care  and  vexation. 

A  large  proportion  of  her  time  was  necessarily  devoted  to  her 
d^^arest  and  best  friend,  Emily ;  but  there  was  nothing  exclusive 
in  Emily's  nature ;  when  not  suffering  from  those  bodily  afflic- 
tions to  which  she  was  subject,  she  was  ever  ready  to  extend  a 
oordial  welcome  to  all  visitors  who  could  find  pleasure  or  benefit 
from  her  society ;  and  even  the  wild  and  thoughtless  Fanny  never 
felt  herself  an  intruder  in  Emily's  premises,  so  sweet  was  the 
smile  with  which  she  was  greeted,  so  forbearing  the  indulgence 
which  was  awarded  to  her  waywardness.  It  can  hardly  be  sup- 
posed, then,  that  Kitty  would  be  excluded  from  her  hospitality 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


especially  after  Emily,  with  a  truly  wonderful  perception,  became 
aware  that  she  was  less  gay  and  happy  than  formerly,  and  had 
therefore  an  additional  claim  upon  her  kindness. 

Many  a  time,  when  Isabel  had  been  tantalizing  and  wounding 
Kitty  beyond  what  her  patience  could  endure,  and  Gertrude  had 
been  vainly  sought  elsewhere,  a  little  figure  would  present  itself 
at  the  half-open  door  of  Miss  Graham's  room,  and  was  sure  to 
hear  the  sweetest  of  voices  saying  from  within,  "  I  hear  yon, 
Kitty;  come  m,  my  dear;  we  shall  be  glad  of  your  pleasant  com- 
pany; ■  and  once  there,  seated  by  the  side  of  Gertrude,  learning 
iVom  hex  some  little  art  in  needle-work,  listening  to  an  agreeable 
book,  or  Emily's  more  agreeable  conversation,  Kitty  passed  hours 
which  were  never  forgotten,  so  peaceful  were  they,  so  serene,  so 
totally  unlike  any  she  had  ever  spent  before.  Nor  did  they  fail 
to  leave  a  lasting  impression  upon  her,  for  the  benefit  of  her  mind 
and  heart. 

None  could  live  in  familiar  intercourse  with  Emily,  listen  to 
lier  words,  observe  the  radiance  of  her  heavenly  smile,  and  breathe 
in  the  pure  atmosphere  that  environed  her  very  being,  and  not 
f;arry  away  with  them  the  love  of  virtae  and  holiness,  if^'not  some- 
ihing  of  their  essence.    She  was  so  unselfish,  so  patient,  notwith. 
^itanding  her  privations,  that  Kitty  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
repine  in  her  presence  ;  and  there  was  a  contagious  cheerfulness 
ever  pervading  her  apartment,  which,  in  spite  of  Kitty's  recent 
cause  of  unhappiness,  often  led  her  to  forget  herself,  and  break 
into  her  natural  tone  of  buoyancy  and  glee.    As  week  after  week 
passed  away,  and  her  sufferings  and  regrets,  which  at  first  were  so 
vehement  and  severe,  began  to  wear  off  as  rapidly  as  such  hurricane 
^^orrows  are  apt  to  do,  and  the  process  of  cure  went  on  silently  and 
unconsciously,  another  work  at  the  same  time  progressed,  to  her 
equally  salutary  and  important.    In  her  constant  intercourse  with 
the  pure  heart  and  superior  mind  of  Emily,  and  her  r,till  more 
familiar  intimacy  with  one  who  had  sat  at  her  feet  and  learned  of 
her,  Kitty  imbibed  an  elevation  of  thought  and  a  worthiness  of 
aim  quite  foreign  to  her  quondam  character. 

The  foolish  child,  whose  heart  was  ensnared  by  the  flatteries  of 
Mr.  Bruce  learned  — partly  through  the  example  and  precepts 
26 


802 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


of  her  new  counsellors  and  friends,  and  partly  through  her  owu 
bitter  experience  —  the  vanity  and  emptiness  of  the  food  thu? 
administered  to  her  mind;  and  resolving,  for  the  first  time  ip 
her  life,  to  cultivate  and  cherish  her  immortal  powers,  she  nov 
developed  the  first  germs  of  her  better  nature ;  which,  expand- 
ing in  later  years,  and  through  other  influences,  transformed  th(j» 
gay  fluttering,  vain  child  of  fashion,  into  the  useful;  eatimabk 
m6  lovely  womaa. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


Bm&n  slights,  neglect,  unmixed  perhaps  i»yith  iiat«, 
Make  up  in  number  what  they  want  in  weigh.. 
These,  and  a  thousand  griefs  minute  as  these. 
Corrode  our  comfort  and  destroy  our  ease. 

J-  NNAH  More.  . 

Little  did  Gertrude  imagine,  while  she  was  striving  mjisi;  dig. 
interestedly  to  promote  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  Kitty  who 
nad  thrown  herself  upon  her  love  and  care,  the  jealousy  and  ill. 
will  she  was  exciting  in  others.  Isabel,  who  had  never  liked  one 
whose  whole  tone  of  action  and  life  was  a  continual  reproach  t) 
her  own  vanity  and  selfishness,  and  who  saw  in  her  the  additional, 
crime  of  being  the  favored  friend  of  a  youth  of  whose  interest- 
ing  boyhood  she  herself  retained  a  sentimental  recollection,  was 
ready  and  eager  to  seize  the  earliest  opportunity  of  rendering  her 
odious  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Graham.  She  was  not  slow  to  observe 
the  remarkable  degree  of  confidence  that  seemed  to  exist  betweea 
Kitty  and  Gertrude ;  she  remembered  that  her  cousin  had  for- 
^aken  her  own  room  for  that  of  the  latter  the  very  night  after 
her  probable  quarrel  and  parting  with  Bruce;  and,  her  resentment 
and  anger  excited  still  further  by  the  growing  friendship  which 
lier  own  coldness  and  unkindness  to  Kitty  served  only  to 
strengthen  and  confirm,  she  hastened  to  communicate  to  Mrs, 
Graham  her  suspicion  that  Gertrude  had,  for  purposes  of  her 
own,  made  a  difiiculty  between  Bruce  and  Kitty,  fostered  and 
widened  the  breach,  and  succeeded  at  last  in  breaking  off  the 
match. 

Mrs.  Graham  readily  adopted  Belle's  opinion.  "  Kitty,"  said 
Hhe,  "  is  weak-minded,  and  evidently  very  much  under  Miss  Flint's 
influence.    I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  you  were  right,  Belle  !  " 

Thus  leagued  together,  they  endeavored  to  sirprise  or  entrap 


804 


THE  LAMPLIGHTfiii. 


Kitty  into  a  confession  of  the  means  which  had  beer^  Tftken 
Gertrude  to  drive  away  her  lover,  and  out-wit  herself.  But  Kitty 
while  she  iiidignantly  denied  Gertrude's  having  thus  injured  her. 
persisted  obstinately  in  refusing  to  reveal  the  occurrences  of  the 
eventful  evening  of  the  wedding  levee.  It  was  the  first  secret 
Kitty  ever  did  keep ;  but  her  woman's  pride  was  involved  in  the 
aftair,  and  she  preserved  it  with  a  care  which  both  honor  and 
wisdom  prompted. 

Mrs.  Graham  and  Belle  were  now  truly  angry,  and  many  were 
the  private  discussions  held  by  them  on  the  subject,  many  the  vain 
conjectures  which  they  conjured  up ;  and  as,  day  after  day,  they 
became  more  and  more  incensed  against  Gertrude,  so  they  grad- 
ually began  to  manifest  it  in  their  demeanor. 

Gertrude  soon  perceived  the  incivility  to  which  she  was  con- 
stantly subjected ;  for,  though  in  a  great  degree  indexjendent  of 
their  friendship,  she  could  not  live  under  the  same  roof  wiihout 
'.neir  having  frequent  opportunities  to  wound  her  by  theii*  rudi^ 
aess,  which  soon  became  marked,  and  would  have  been  unendurable 
to  one  whose  disposition  wa^  less  thoroughly  schooled  than  Ger- 
trude's. 

With  wonderful  patience,  however,  did  she  preserve  her  equa- 
nimity. She  had  never  looked  for  kindness  and  attention  from 
Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel.  She  had  seen  from  the  first  that 
between  herself  and  them  there  could  be  little  s^nnpathy,  and 
now  that  they  manifested  open  dislike  she  struggled  hard  to  main- 
tain,  on  her  part,  not  only  self-command  and  composure,  but  a 
constant  spirit  of  charity.  It  was  well  that  she  did  not  yield  to 
this  comparatively  light  trial  of  her  forbearance,  for  a  new,  unex- 
pected, and  far  more  intense  provocation  was  in  store  for  her. 
Her  malicious  persecutors,  incensed  and  irritated  by  an  milooked- 
for  calmness  and  patience,  which  gave  them  no  advantage  in  their 
ono-sidel  warfare,  now  made  their  attack  in  another  quarter;  and 
Emily,  the  sweet,  lovely,  unoffending  Emily,  became  the  cw)ject 
against  whom  they  aimed  many  of  their  shafts  of  luikindness  and 
ill-will. 

Gertrude  could  bear  injury,  injustice,  and  even  hard  and  crueJ 
language,  when  exercised  towards  herse.f  only;  but  her  blood 


TilE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


boiled  in  Ker  veins  when  she  began  to  perceive  that  her  cherished 
Emily  was  becoming  the  victim  of  mean  and  petty  ncgle.^t  and  ill 
usage.  To  address  the  gentle  Emily  in  other  words  than  those 
of  courtesj  was  next  to  impossible ;  it  was  equally  hard  to  find 
fault  with  the  actions  of  one  whose  life  was  so  good  and  beautifui 
and  the  somewhat  isolated  position  which  she  occupied  on  account 
of  her  blindness  seemed  to  render  her  secure  from  interference  ; 
but  Mrs.  Graham  was  coarse  and  blunt,  Isabel  selfish  and  unfeel- 
ing, and  long  before  the  blind  girl  was  herself  aware  of  any  unkind 
intention  on  their  part,  Gertrude's  spirit  had  chafed  and  rebelled 
at  the  sight  and  knowledge  of  many  a  word  and  act,  well 
calculated,  if  perceived,  to  annoy  and  distress  a  sensitive  and  deli- 
cate spirit.  Many  a  stroke  was  warded  off  by  Q  ertrude ;  many 
a  neglect  atoned  for,  before  it  could  be  felt;  many  a  nearly 
defeated  plan,  which  Emily  was  known  to  have  had  at  heart, 
carried  through  and  accomplished  by  Gertrude's  perseverance  and 
energy ;  and  for  some  weeks  Emily  was  kept  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  many  a  little  office  formerly  performed  for  her  by  a  servant 
was  now  fulfilled  by  Gertrude,  who  would  not  let  her  know  that 
Bridget  had  received  from  her  mistress  orders  which  were  quite 
inconsistent  with  her  usual  attendance  upon  Miss  Graham's  wants. 

Mr.  Graham  was,  at  this  time,  absent  from  home ;  some  diffi« 
culty  and  anxiety  in  business  matters  having  called  him  to  New 
York,  at  a  season  when  he  usually  enjoyed  his  leisure,  free  from 
all  such  cares.  His  presence  would  have  been  a  great  restraint 
upon  his  wife,  who  was  well  aware  of  his  devoted  affection  for  his 
daughter,  and  his  wish  that  her  comfort  and  ease  should  always 
be  considered  of  first-rate  importance.  Indeed,  his  love  and 
thoughtfulness  for  Emily,  and  the  enthusiastic  devotion  manifested 
towards  her  by  every  member  of  the  household,  had  early  ren- 
dered her  an  object  of  jealousy  to  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was  therefore 
very  willing  to  find  ground  of  offence  against  her  ;  and,  in  her  case 
as  in  Isabel's,  Kitty's  desertion  to  what  her  aunt  and  cousin  eon 
sidered  the  unfriendly  party  was  only  a  secondary  cause  of 
distrust  and  dislike. 

The  misunderstanding  with  Mr.  Bruce,  and  theii  unworthy 
Bispicions  of  its  having  been  fostered  by  Gertrude,  aided  ani? 


8015 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


abetted  by  Emily,  furnished,  however,  an  ostensible  motive  tor 
the  indulgence  of  their  animosity,  and  one  of  which  they  resolved 
to  avail  themselves  to  the  utmost. 

Shortly  before  Mr.  Graham's  return  home,  Mrs.  Graham  and 
Isabel  were  sitting  together,  endeavoring  to  while  away  the  tedioua 
hours  of  a  sultry  August  afternoon  by  indulging  themselves  in  an 
unlimited  abuse  of  the  rest  of  the  household,  when  a  letter  was 
brought  to  Mrs.  Graham,  which  proved  to  be  from  her  husband. 
After  glancing  over  its  contents,  she  remarked,  with  an  air  of 
satisfaction,  "  Here  is  good  news  for  us,  Isabel,  and  a  prospect  cf 
gome  pleasure  in  the  world ;  ^'  and  she  read  aloud  the  following 
passage :  The  troublesome  affair  which  called  me  here  is  nearly 
settled,  and  the  result  is  exceedingly  favorable  to  my  wishes  ana 
plans.  I  now  see  nothing  to  prevent  our  starting  for  Europe  the 
latter  part  of  next  month,  and  the  girls  must  make  their  arrange- 
ments  accordingly.  Tell  Emily  to  spare  nothing  towards  a  fuU 
and  complete  equipment  for  herself  and  Gertrude." 

"  He  speaks  of  Gertrude,"  said  Isabel,  sneeringly,  "  as  if  sha 
were  one  of  the  family.  I 'm  sure  I  don't  see  any  very  great 
prospect  of  pleasure  in  travelling  all  through  Europe  with  a  blind 
woman  and  her  disagreeable  appendages  ;  I  can't  think  what  Mr. 
Graham  wants  to  take  them  for." 

"I  wish  he  would  leave  them  at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Graham; 
it  would  be  a  good  punishment  for  Gertrude.    But,  mercy !  ho 
would  as  soon  think  of  going  without  his  right  hand  as  without 
Emily." 

<'  I  hope,  if  ever  I  am  married,"  exclaimed  Isabel,  "  it  won't  be 
to  a  man  that's  got  a  blind  daughter !— Such  a  dreadful  good 
person,  too,  whom  everybody  has  got  to  worship,  and  admire,  and 
wait  upon !  " 

"  1  don't  have  to  wait  upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  ;  "  that 
Gertrude's  business  —  it 's  what  she 's  going  for." 

That 's  the  worst  of  it ;  blind  girl  has  to  have  a  waiting-maid, 
and  waiting-maid  is  a  great  lady,  who  does  n't  mind  cheating  your 
nieces  out  "of  their  lovers,  and  even  robbing  them  of  each  other'u 
affection.'^ 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do,  Belle  ?    I 'm  sure  I  don't  want  Ge^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


307 


iruie's  coa-pany  any  more  than  you  do ;  but  I  don't  S(3e  how  1  can 
get  rid  of  her." 

I  should  think  you 'd  tell  Mr.  Graham  some  of  the  harm  she 's 
done  already.  If  you  have  any  influence  over  him,  you  mio-ht 
prevent  her  going." 

"  It  would  be  no  more  than  she  deserves,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
thoughtfully,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  I  shall  give  him  a  hint  of 
her  behavior;  he 'D  be  surprised  enough  when  he  hears  of  Bruce'a 
sudden  flight.  I  know  he  thought  it  would  be  a  match  between 
him  and  Kitty." 

^  At  this  point  in  the  conversation,  Isabel  was  summoned  to  see 
visitors,  and  left  her  aunt  in  a  mood  pregnant  with  consequences. 

As  Isabel  descended  the  front  staircase,  to  meet  with  smiles  and 
compliments  the  guests  whom  in  her  heart  she  wished  a  thou- 
sand miles  away  on  this  intensely  hot  afternoon,  Gertrude  came 
up  by  the  back  way  from  the  kitchen,  and  passed  along  a  passage 
leading  to  her  own  room.  She  carried,  over  one  arm,  a  dress  of 
delicate  white  muslin,  and  a  number  of  embroidered  collars,  sleeves 
and  ruffles,  together  with  other  articles  evidently  fresh  from  the 
ironing-board.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  heated;  she  looked 
tired,  and,  as  she  reached  her  room,  and  carefully  deposited  her 
ourden  upon  the  bed,  she  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  much  fatigued, 
seated  herself  by  a  window,  brushed  the  hair  back  from  her'face, 
and  threw  open  a  blind,  to  feel,  if  possible,  a  breath  of  cool 
air.  Just  at  this  moment,  Mrs.  Prime  put  her  head  in  at  the 
half-open  door,  and,  seeing  Gertrude  alone,  entered  the  room,  but 
stood  fixed  with  astonishment  on  observing  the  evidences  of  her 
recent  laborious  employment;  then,  glancing  directly  opposite  at 
the  fruits  of  her  diligence,  she  burst  forth,  indignantly,  "  My  sakeg 
alive !  Miss  Gertrude,  I  do  believe  you  Ve  been  doin'  up  them 
mu>lins  yourself,  after  all !  " 

Gertrude  smiled,  but  did  not  reply. 

"Now,  if  that  an't  too  bad!"  said  the  friendly  and  kind- 
hearted  woman.  -  to  think  you  should  ha'  been  at  work  down  in 
that  'ere  hot  kitchen,  and  all  the  rest  on  us  takin'  a  spell  o'  rest  in 
the  licat  of  the  day  !  I  '11  warrant,  if  Miss  Emily  knew  it,  she 'd 
never  put  on  that  white  gown  in  this  'ere  world! ' 


808 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


*♦  It  hardly  looks  fit  for  lier  lo  wear,"  said  Gertrude.   "  L 
not  much  used  to  ironing,  and  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
with  it ;  one  side  got  dry  before  I  could  smooth  out  the  other." 

"  It  looks  elegant,  Miss  Gertrude ;  but  what  should  you  be 
doin'  Bridget  s  work  for,  I  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Bridget  always  has  enough  to  do,"  said  Gertrude,  evading  a 
direct  answer,  and  it 's  very  well  for  me  to  have  some  practice , 
knowledge  never  comes  amiss,  you  know,  Mrs.  Prime." 

"  'T  an't  no  kind  of  an  afternoon  for  'speriments  o'  that  sort ;  and 
you  would  n't  ha'  done  it,  I  '11  venture  to  say,  if  you  had  n't  been 
afeard  Miss  Emily  would  want  her  things,  and  find  out  they  wan't 
done.  Times  is  changed  in  this  house,  when  Mr.  Graham's  own 
daughter,  that  was  once  to  the  head  of  everything,  has  to  have  her 
clothes  laid  by  to  make  room  for  other  folks.  Bridget  ought  to 
know  better  than  to  mind  these  upstarters,  when  they  tell  her,  as 
I  heard  Miss  Graham  yesterday,  to  let  alone  that  heap  o*  muslins, 
snd  attend  to  something  that  was  o'  more  consequence.  Our 
Katy  would  ha'  known  better :  but  Bridget 's  a  new  comer,  like  all 
the  rest.  Thinks  I  to  myself  then,  what  would  Miss  Gertrude 
say,  if  she  suspected  as  how  Miss  Emily  was  bein'  neglected 
But  I  '11  tell  Miss  Emily,  as  sure  as  my  name 's  Prime,  just  how 
things  go  ;  —  you  shan't  get  so  red  in  the  face  with  ironing  agin 
Miss  Gertrude.  If  the  kmd  o'  frocks  she  likes  to  wear  can't  b^ 
done  up  at  home,  —  and  yourn  too,  what 's  more,  —  the  washin'  ought 
to  be  put  out.  There 's  money  enough,  and  some  of  it  ought  to  be 
spent  for  the  use  o'  the  ladies  as  is  ladies !  I  wish  to  heart  that 
Isabella  could  have  to  start  round  a  little  lively;  'twould  do  her 
good  ;  but.  Lor',  Miss  Gertrude,  it  goes  right  to  my  heart  to  see  all 
the  vexatious  things  as  is  happenin'  now-a-days !  I  '11  go  right  to 
Miss  Emily,  this  minute,  and  blow  my  blast ! " 

No,  you  won't,  Mrs.  Prime,"  said  Gertrude,  persuasive]/, 

when  I  ask  you  not  to.  You  forget  how  unhappy  it  would  make 
her  if  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Graham  was  so  wanting  in  considera- 
tion. I  would  rather  iron  dresses  every  day,  or  do  anything  else 
for  our  dear  Miss  Emily,  than  to  let  her  susjpeci  even  that  any* 
body  could  willinglj  be  unkind  to  her." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


309 


Mrs.  Primo  hesitated.  <'  Miss  Grertrude,"  said  she,.*'  T  thought 
1  xovcd  our  dear  young  ladj  as  well  as  anybody  could,  but  I  be- 
lieve you  love  her  better  still,  to  be  so  thoughtful  and  wise-liku 
all  for  her  sake  ;  and  I  would  n't  say  nothin'  about  it,  only  I  think 
a  sight  o'  you,  too  ;  you 've  been  here  ever  since  you  was  a  little 
gal,  and  we  all  set  lots  by  you,  and  I  can't  see  them  folks  ride 
over  3^our  head,  as  I  know  they  mean  to." 

"  I  know  you  love  me,  Mrs.  Prime,  and  Emily  too;  so,  for  the 
sake  of  us  both,  you  mustn't  say  a  word  to  anybody  about  the 
change  in  the  family  arrangements.  We  '11  all  do  what  we  can  to 
keep  Emily  from  pain,  and,  as  to  the  rest,  we  won't  care  for  our- 
selves;  if  they  don't  pet  and  indulge  me  as  much  as  iVe  been 
accustomed  to,  the  easiest  way  is  not  to  notice  it;  and  you 
must  n't  put  on  your  spectacles  to  see  trouble." 

"  Lord  bless  yer  heart.  Miss  Gertrude,  them  folks  is  lucky  to 
have  you  to  deal  with  ;  it  isn't  everybody  as  would  put  up  with 
'em.  They  don't  come  much  in  my  way,  thank  fortin' !  I  let 
Miss  Graham  see,  right  off,  that  I  would  n't  put  up  with  inter- 
ference;  cooks  is  privileged  to  set  up  for  their  rights,  and  I  scared 
her  out  o'  my  premises  pretty  quick,  I  tell  yer!  It 's  mighty  hard 
for  me  to  see  our  own  ladies  imposed  upon  ;  but  since  you  say 
•  mum,'  Miss  Gertrude,  I  '11  try  and  hold  my  tongue  as  long  as  I 
can.  It's  a  shame  though,  I  do  declare!"  —  and  Mrs.  Prime 
walked  off,  muttering  to  herself. 

An  hour  after,  Gertrude  was  at  the  glass,  braiding  up  the 
bands  of  her  long  hair,  when  Mrs.  Ellis,  after  a  slight  knock  at 
the  door,  entered. 

"  Well,  Gertrude,"  said  she  "  I  did  n't  think  it  would  come  to 
(his  !  " 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  inquired  Gertrude,  anxiously. 

"  It  seems  we  are  going  to  be  turned  out  of  our  rooms ! " 

"  Who  ? '» 
You,  and  I  next,  for  aught  I  know." 

Gertrude  colored,  but  did  not  speak,  and  Mrs.  Ellis  went  on  to 
relate  that  she  had  just  received  orders  to  fit  up  Gertrude's  room 
for  some  visitors  who  were  expected  the  next  day.  She  was 
lisionished  to  hear  that  Gertrude  had  not  been  consulted  on  che 


810 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEPw. 


subject.    Mrs.  Grraham  had  spoken  so  carek  ,siT  of  htr  remoTai 

and  seemed  to  think  it  so  mutually  agreeable  for  Emily  (O  share 
her  apartment  with  her  young  friend,  that  Mrs.  Ellis  concluded 
the  matter  had  been  prearranged. 

Deeply  wounded  and  vexed,  both  on  her  own  and  Emily's  ac- 
count, Gertrude  stood  for  a  moment  silent  and  irresolute.  She 
then  asked  if  Mrs.  Ellis  had  spoken  to  Emily  on  the  subject.  Sha 
had  not.    Gertrude  begged  her  to  say  nothing  about  it. 

I  cannot  bear,''  said  she,  to  let  her  know  that  the  little 
sanctum  she  fitted  up  so  carefully  has  been  unceremoniously 
taken  from  me.  I  sleep  in  her  room  more  than  half  the  time,  as 
you  know ;  but  she  always  likes  to  have  me  call  this  chamber 
mine,  that  I  may  be  sure  of  a  place  where  I  can  read  and  study 
by  myself.  If  you  will  let  me  remove  my  bureau  into  your 
room,  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  sleep  on  a  couch  there  occasionally,  we  need 
not  say  anything  about  it  to  Emily." 

Mrs.  Ellis  assented.  She  had  grown  strangely  humble  and  com- 
pliant within  a  few  months,  and  Gertrude  had  completely  won 
her  good-will ;  first  by  forbearance,  and  latterly  by  the  frequent 
favors  and  assistance  she  had  found  it  in  her  power  to  render  the 
overburdened  housekeeper.  So  she  made  no  objection  to  receive 
Her  into  her  room  as  an  inmate,  and  even  offered  to  assist  in  the 
removal  of  her  wardrobe,  work-table  and  books. 

But,  though  yielding  and  considerate  towards  Gertrude,  whom, 
with  Emily  and  Mrs.  Prime,  she  now  considered  members  of  the 
oppressed  and  injured  party  to  which  she  herself  belonged,  no 
words  could  express  her  indignation  with  regard  to  the  late  be- 
havior of  Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel.  "  It  is  all  of  a  piece,"  said 
ghe,  "  with  the  rest  of  their  conduct !  Sometimes  I  almost  feel 
thankful  that  Emily  is  blind,  it  would  grieve  her  so  to  see  the 
goings  on.  I  should  have  liked  to  box  Isabella's  ears  for  taking 
ycir  seat  at  the  table  so  impudently  as  she  did  yesterday,  and 
then  neglecting  to  help  Emily  to  anything  at  all ;  and  there  sat  dear 
Emily,  angel  as  she  is  unconscious  of  her  shameful  behavior, 
and  asking  her  for  butter  as  sweetly  as  if  it  were  by  mere  acci- 
dent that  you  had  been  driven  from  the  table,  and  she  left  to 
provide  foi  herself    And  all  those  strangers  there,  too  !    I  wsaw  it 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  3J  ^ 

afl  from  the  ehina-closei !  And  then  Emily's  dresses  and  o  islbcl 
—  there  thoy  laid  in  the  press-drawer,  till  I  thought  they  wouIJ 
mildew.  I  'ni  glad  to  see  Bridget  has  been  a  lowed  to  do  them  at 
lai^t,  tor  I  began  to  think  Emily  would  one  of  these  warm  days 
DO  without  a  clean  gown  in  the  world.  But,  there,  it's  no  use 
talking  about  it;  all  I  wish  is,  that  they'd  all  go  off'  to  Europe 
and  leave  us  here  to  ourselves.  You  don't  want  to  go,  do  you 
Oertrude  ?"  °        ^  ' 

■  Yes,  if  Emily  goes." 

"Well  you're  better  than  I  am  ;  I  couldn't  make  such  a 
martyr  of  myself,  oven  for  her  sake." 

^  It  is  needless  to  detail  the  many  petty  annoyances  to  which 
Gertrude  was  daily  subjected ;  especially  after  the  arrival  of  the 
expected  visitors,  a  gay  and  thoughtless  party  of  fashionables,  who 
were  taught  to  look  upon  her  as  an  unwarrantable  intruder,  and 
upon  Emily  as  a  troublesome  incumbrance.    Nor,  with  all  the 
pains  taken  to  prevent  it,  could  Emily  be  long  kept  in  ignorance 
ot  the  light  estimation  in  which  both  herself  and  Gertrude  were 
regarded.    Kitty,  incensed  at  the  incivility  of  her  aunt  and  Isa- 
bel, and  indifferent  towards  the  visitors,  to  whose  folly  and  levitv 
ot  character  her  eyes  were  now  partially  opened,  hesitated  not  to 
express  both  to  Emily  and  Gertrude  her  sense  of  the  injuries 
they  sustained,  and  her  own  desire  to  act  in  their  defence.  But 
Kitty  was  no  formidable  antagonist  to  Mrs.  Graham  and  Belle 
for  her  spirits  greatly  subdued,  and  her  fears  constantly  excited 
by  her  cousm's  sarcastic  looks  and  speeches,  she  had  become  a 
sad  coward,  and  no  longer  dared,  as  she  would  once  have  done,  to 
thwart  their  schemes,  and  stand  between  her  friends  and  the 
indignities  to  which  they  were  exposed. 

But  Mrs.  Graham,  thoughtless  woman,  went  too  far,  and  be- 
came at  last  entangled  in  difficulties  of  her  own  weaving.  Her 
husband  returned,  and  it  now  became  necessary  to  set  bounds  to 
her  own  insolence,  and,  what  was  far  more  difficult,  to  that  of 
Isabel.  Mrs.  Graham  was  a  woman  of  tact;  she  knew  just  how 
far  her  nusband's  forbearance  would  extend, -just  the  point  to 
wnich  his  perceptions  might  be  blinded:  and  had  also  sufficient 
"olf-oontrol  to  ch  >ofe  herself  in  any  course  which  would  be  likely 


312 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


to  prove  obnoxious  to  liis  Imperious  will.  In  hiS  absence,  bow- 
ever,  she  acted  without  restraint,  permitted  Belle  to  fill  the  bouse 
with  her  lively  young  acquaintances,  and  winked  at  the  many 
open  and  flagrant  violations  of  the  law  of  politeness,  manifested 
by  the  young  people  towards  the  daughter  of  their  absent  host, 
and  her  youthfui  friend  and  attendant.  Now,  however,  a  check 
must  be  put  to  all  indecorous  proceedings  ;  and,  unfortunately  for 
the  execution  of  the  wife's  wise  precautions,  the  head  of  the 
family  returned  unexpectedly,  and  under  circumstances  which 
forestalled  any  preparation  or  warning.  He  arrived  just  at  du>k; 
havincy  come  from  town  in  an  omnibus,  which  was  quite  contrary 

o 

to  his  usual  custom. 

It  was  a  cool  evening ;  the  windows  and  doors  of  the  house 
were  closed,  and  the  parlor  was  so  brilliantly  lighted  that  he  at 
once  suspected  the  truth  that  a  large  company  was  being  enter- 
tained there.  He  felt  vexed,  for  it  was  Saturday  night,  and,  in 
accordance  with  old  New  England  customs,  Mr.  Graham  loved 
to  see  his  household  quiet  on  that  evening.  He  was,  moreover, 
suffering  from  a  violent  headache,  and,  avoiding  the  parlor,  he 
passed  on  to  the  library,  and  then  to  the  dining-room ;  both  were 
chilly  and  deserted.  He  then  made  his  way  up  stairs,  walked 
through  several  rooms,  glanced  indignantly  at  their  disordered 
and  slovenly  appearance,  —  for  he  was  excessively  neat,  — and 
finally  gained  Emily's  chamber.  He  opened  the  door  noiselessly, 
and  looked  in. 

A  bright  wood-fire  burned  upon  the  hearth  ;  a  couch  was  drawn 
up  beside  it,  on  which  Emily  was  sitting ;  and  Gertrude's  little 
rocking-chair  occupied  the  opposite  corner.  The  fire-light  re- 
fleeted  upon  the  white  curtains,  the  fragrant  perfume  which  pro- 
eoeded  from  a  basket  of  flowers  upon  the  table,  the  perfect  neat- 
ness  and  order  of  the  apartment,  the  placid,  peaceful  face  of 
Emily,  and  the  radiant  expression  of  Gertrude's  countenance,  as 
she  looked  up  and  saw  the  father  and  protector  of  her  blind 
friend  looking  pleasantly  in  upon  them,  proved  such  a  charming 
contrast  to  the  scenes  presented  in  other  parts  of  the  house,  that 
the  old  gentleman,  warmed  to  more  than  usual  satisfa-c^.n  with 
tovh  of  the  inmates,  greeted  his  surprised  daughter  with  a  heaity 


THE  LAMrLIGHTER. 


pateinal  embrace,  and,  bestowing  upon  Gertrude  an  equally  affee- 
tionate  greeting,  exclaimed,  as  he  took  the  arm-chair  which  the 
latter  wh(  eled  in  front  of  the  fire  for  his  accommodation,  "  Now, 
gn^s,  this  looks  pleasant  and  homelike !  What  in  the  world  is 
going  on  down  stairs  ?    What  is  everything  up  in  arms  about  ?  "  , 

Emily  explained  that  there  was  company  staying  in  the  house. 

*^  Ugh  !  company  !  "  grunted  Mr.  Graham,  in  a  dissatisfied  tona 
I  should  think  so  !  Been  emptying  rag-bags  about  the  chambers, 
I  should  sa  7,  from  the  looks  !  " 

Gertrude  asked  if  he  had  been  to  tea. 

He  had  not,  and  should  be  thankful  for  some  ;  —  he  was  tired. 
So  she  went  down  stairs  to  see  about  it. 

Don't  tell  anybody  that  I 've  got  home,  Gerty,"  called  he,  a5 
she  left  the  room ;  "  I  want  to  be  left  in  peace  to-night,  at  least " 

While  Gertrude  was  gone,  Mr.  Graham  questioned  Emily  as  to 
her  preparations  for  the  European  tour  ;  to  his  surprise,  he  learned 
that  she  had  never  received  his  message  communicated  in  the 
letter  to  Mrs.  Graham,  and  knew  nothing  of  his  plans.  Equally 
astonished  and  angry,  he  nevertheless  restrained  his  temper  for 
the  present;  — he  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  to  himself,  far  less 
to  his  daughter,  that  his  commands  had  been  disregarded  by  his 
wife.    It  put  him  upon  thinking,  howe\^er. 

After  he  had  enjoyed  a  comfortable  repast,  at  which  Gertrude 
presided,  they  both  returned  to  Emily's  room ;  and  now  Mr.  Gra- 
ham's first  inquiry  was  for  the  Evening  Transcript, 

"  I  will  go  for  it,''  said  Gertrude,  rising. 

"  Ring  !  "  said  Mr.  Graham,  imperatively.  nad  observed 

at  the  teavtable  that  Gertrude's  ring  was  disregarded,  and  wislied 
to  know  the  cause  of  so  strange  a  piece  of  neglect.  Gertrude  rang 
several  times,  but  obtained  no  answer  to  the  bell.  At  last  she 
heard  Bridget's  step  in  the  entry,  and,  opening  the  'oor,  said  to 
her,  "  Bridget,  won't  you  find  the  Transcript,  and  brnig  it  to  Miss 
Emily's  room.''  Bridget  soon  returned,  with  the  announcement 
that  Miss  Isabella  was  reading  it,  and  declined  to  give  it  up. 

A  storm  gathered  on  Mr.  Graham's  brow.  "  Such  a  message  tc 
viy  daughter  /  "  he  exclaimed.  Gertrude,  gr  yourself,  and'  telj 
27 


814 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


the  impertinent  girl  that  /  war\t  the  paper  I  Wh'^i  Korl  of  la- 
vior  is  this  ?  "  mul  ^ered  ha 

Gertrude  entered  the  parlor  with  great  composure,  and,  amid 
the  stares  and  wonder  of  the  company,  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to 
Belle,  who  immediately  yielded  up  the  paper,  blushing  and  look- 
ing much  confused  as  she  did  so.  Belle  was  afraid  of  Mr.  Gra- 
ham ;  and,  on  her  informing  her  aunt  of  his  return,  it  was  that 
lady's  turn,  also,  to  look  disconcerted.  She  had  fully  calculated 
upon  seeing  her  husband  before  he  had  access  to  Eriiily;  she 
knew  the  importance  of  giving  the  desired  bias  to  a  man  of  his 
strong  prejudices. 

But  it  was  too  late  now.  She  would  not  go  to  seek  him ;  she 
must  take  her  chance,  and  trust  to  fortune  to  befriend  her.  She 
used  all  her  tact,  however,  to  disperse  her  friends  at  an  earl^ 
hour,  and  then  found  Mr.  Graham  smoking  in  the  dining-room. 

He  was  in  an  unpleasant  mood  (as  she  told  her  niece  afterwards 
cross  as  a  bear) ;  but  she  contrived  to  conciliate  rather  than  irritate 
him,  avoided  all  discordant  subjects,  and  was  able  the  next  morn- 
ing to  introduce  to  her  friends  an  apparently  affable  and  obliging 
host. 

This  serenity  was  disturbed,  however,  long  before  the  Sabbath 
drew  to  a  close.  As  he  walked  up  the  cLuixh-aisle,  before  morn- 
ing service,  with  Emily,  according  to  invariable  custom,  leaning 
upon  his  arm,  his  brow  darkened  at  seeing  Isabel  complacently 
seated  in  that  corner  of  the  old-fashioned  square  pew  which  all  the 
family  were  well  aware  had  for  years  been  sacred  to  his  blind 
daughter.  Mrs.  Graham,  who  accompanied  them,  winked  at  her 
niece ;  but  Isabel  was  mentally  rather  obtuse,  and  was,  conse- 
quently, subjected  to  the  mortification  of  having  Mr.  Graham 
ieliberately  take  her  hand  and  remove  her  from  the  seat,  in  which 
he  immediately  placed  Emily,  while  the  displaced  occupant,  who 
had  been  so  mean  as  for  the  last  three  Sundays  to  purposely  de- 
prive Miss  Graham  of  this  old  established  right,  was  compelled  to 
sit  during  the  service  in  the  only  vacant  place,  beside  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, with  her  back  to  the  pulpit.  And  very  angry  was  she  at 
Dbserving  the  smiles  visible  upon  many  countc ranees  in  tie  neigh* 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  315 

boring  pern  ,  and  especially  chagrined  when  Tarny  Bruce,  who 
Was  close  to  her  in  the  next  pew,  giggled  outright. 

Emily  would  have  been  grieved  if  she  had  been  in  the  least 
aware  of  the  triumph  she  had  unconsciously  achieved.  But  her 
aeart  and  thoughts  were  turned  upward,  and,  as  she  haa  felt  no 
pang  of  provocation  at  Isabel's,  past  encroachment,  so  had  she  no 
consciousness  of  present  satisfaction,  except  as  the  force  of  halit 
made  her  feel  more  at  ease  in  her  old  seat. 

Mr.  Graham  had  not  been  at  home  a  week  before  he  understood 
plainly  the  existing  state  oi'  feeling  in  the  mind  of  his  wife  and 
Isabel,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  likely  to  act  upon  tho 
happiness  of  the  household.    He  saw  that  Emily  was  supc  rior  to 
complaint;  he  knew  that  she  had  never  in  her  life  complained ; 
he  observed,  too,  Gertrude's  devotion  to  his  much-loved  child,  and 
it  stamped  her  in  his  mind  as  one  who  had  a  claim  to  his  regard 
which  should  never  be  disputed.    It  is  not,  then,  to  be  wondered 
at,  that  when,  with  much  art  and  many  plausible  words,  Mrs. 
Graham  made  her  intended  insinuations  against  his  youthful 
protegee,  Mr.  Graham  treated  them  with  indifference  and  contempt. 
He  had  known  Gertrude  from  a  child.    She  was  high-spirited, 
-  he  had  sometimes  thought  her  wilful,  —  but  never  mean  or  false. 
It  was  no  use  to  tell  him  all  that  nonsense;  — he  was  glad,  for  hia 
part,  that  it  was  all  off  between  Kitty  and  Bruce;  for  Ben  was 
an  idle  fellow,  and  would  never  make  a  good  husband ;  and,  as  tc 
Kitty,  he  thought  her  much  improved  of  late,  and  if  it  were 
owmg  to  Gertrude's  influence,  the  more  they  saw  of  each  other 
the  better. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  in  despair.  "It  is  all  settled,"  said  she  to 
Isabel.  "  It  is  no  use  to  contest  the  point ;  Mr.  Graham  is  fir;ii 
as  a  rock,  and  as  sure  as  we  go  to  Europe,  Emily  and  Gertrude 
Will  go  too." 

Si-e  was  almost  startled,  therefore,  by  what  she  considered  an 
excess  of  good  luck,  when  informed,  a  few  days  afterwards,  that 
the  couple  she  had  so  dreaded  to  have  of  the  party  were  in  reality 
to  be  left  behind,  and  that,  too.  at  Miss  Graham's  special  requect. 
Emily's  scruples  with  regard  to  mentioning  to  her  father  the  little 
prospect  of  j-easure  the  tour  was  likely  to  aflford  her  all  vanished 


5515  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

t^her  she  found  thrt  Gertrude,  whos^  interest  slie  over  had  ai 
heart  would  be  Ukely  to  prove  a  still  greatei  sufferer  from  tha 
societ7  i)  which  she  would  be  subjected. 

Blind  as  she  was,  Emily  understood  and  perceived  almost  every- 
thing that  was  passing  around  her.  Quick  of  perception,  and 
witlfa  hearing  rendered  doubly  intense  by  her  want  of  sight,  the 
events  of  the  summer  were,  perhaps,  more  familiar  to  her  than  to 
any  other  member  of  the  family.  She  more  than  suspected  the 
exact  state  of  matters  betwixt  Mr.  Bruce  and  Gertrude,  though 
the  latter  had  never  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject.  She  imagined 
the  manner  in  which  Kitty  was  involved  in  the  affair  (no  very 
difficult  thing  to  be  conceived  by  one  who  enjoyed  the  confidences 
which  the  simple-hearted  girl  unconsciously,  but  continually,  made 
during  her  late  intercourse  with  her). 

As°Mrs.  Graham's  and  Isabel's  abuse  of  power  became  more 
open  and  decided,  Mrs.  Ellis  and  Mrs.  Prime  both  considered  the 
embargo  upon  free  speech  in  Miss  Graham's  presence  wholly 
removed;  and  any  pain  which  the  knowledge  of  their  negle^ 
might  have  caused  her  was  more  than  compensated  to  Emily  by 
the  proofs  it  had  called  forth  of  devoted  attachment  and  willing 
service  on  the  part  of  her  adopted  child,  as  she  loved  to  consider 
Gertrude. 

Calmly,  and  without  hesitation,  as  without  excitement,  did  she 
resolve  to  adopt  a  course  which  should  at  once  free  Gertrude  from 
her  self-sacrincmg  service.  That  she  encountered  much  opposition 
from  her  father  may  well  be  imagined ;  but  he  knew  too  well  the 
Impossibility  of  any  pleasure  to  be  derived  to  hersdf  from  a  tour 
•  in  which  mental  pain  was  added  to  outward  deprivation,  to  persibC 
in  urging  her  to  accompany  the  party ;  and,  concluding  at  lasr 
that  it  was,  after  all,  the  only  way  to  reconcile  opposing  interests, 
and  that  Emily's  plan  was,  perhaps,  the  best  that  could  be  adopted 
under  the  circumstances,  decided  to  resign  himself  to  the  long 
separation  from  his  daughter,  and  permit  her  to  be  happy  in  her 
own  way.  He  had  seen,  during  the  previous  winter  at  the  south, 
how  entirely  Emily's  infirmity  unfitted  her  for  travelling,  espec- 
ially  when  deprived  of  Gertrude's  attendant  eyes  ;  he  now  realized 
h     totally  contrary  to  her  tastes  and  habits  were  the  ta&tes  and 


IHE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


317 


nuhiU  of  his  new  wife  and  her  nieces  ;  and,  unwilling  to  be  con< 
vinced  ol  the  folly  of  his  sudden  choice,  and  the  probable  chance 
of  unhappiness  arising  from  it,  he  appreciated  the  wisdom  of 
Emily's  proposax,  and  felt  a  sense  of  relief  in  the  adoption  of  « 
course  which  wDild  satisfy  all  parties. 
27* 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


A  course  of  days,  composing  liappy  months. 

WORDSWCRTH. 

Mrs.  Warren's  pleasant  boarding-house  was  the  place  cho-^n 
6y  Emily  for  her  own  and  Gertrude's  winter  home;  and  one 
month  from  the  time  of  Mr.  Graham's  return  from  New  York  his 
country-house  was  closed,  he,  with  his  wife,  Isabel  and  Kitty, 
were  on  their  way  to  Havre ;  Mrs.  Ellis  gone  to  enjoy  a  little  rest 
from  care  with  some  cousins  at  the  eastward  ;  and  Mrs.  Prime 
established  as  cook  in  Mrs.  Warren's  household,  w^here  all  the 
morning  she  grumbled  at  the  increase  of  duty  she  was  here  called 
upon  to  perform,  and  all  the  evening  blessed  her  stars  that  she 
was  still  under  the  same  roof  with  her  dear  young  ladies. 

Although  ample  arrangements  were  made  by  Mr.  Graham,  and 
all-sufficient  means  provided  for  the  support  of  both  Emily  and 
Gertrude,  the  latter  was  anxious  to  be  once  more  usefully  em- 
ployed,  and,  therefore,  resumed  a  portion  of  her  school  duties  at 
Mr.  W.'s.  Much  as  Emily  loved  Gertrude's  constant  presence, 
she  gladly  resigned  her  for  a  few  hours  every  day,  rejoiced  in 
die  spirit  which  prompted  her  exertions,  and  rewarded  her  with 
her  encouragement  and  praise.  In  the  undisturbed  enjoyment  of 
each  other's  society,  and  in  their  intercourse  with  a  small  but 
intelligent  circle  of  friends,  they  passed  a  season  of  sweet  tran- 
quillity. They  read,  walked  and  communed,  as  in  times  long 
past.  Together  they  attended  lectures,  concerts,  and  galleries  of 
art.  As  they  stood  before  the  works  of  a  master's  hand,  whether 
in  the  sculptured  marble  or  the  painted  canvas-,  and  Emily  lis- 
tened while  Gertrude,  with  glowing  eyes  and  a  face  radiant  with 
snthusiasm,  described  with  minuteness  and  accuracj  the  subject 


THE  LAM! LIGHTER. 


319 


of  the  pvecjS,  iha  manner  k  which  the  artist  had  expressed  in 
his  wcrk  the  original  conception  of  his  mind,  — the  attitudes  of 
figures,  the  expression  of  faces,  the  coloring  of  landscapes,  and  the 
effect  produced  upon  her  mind  and  heart  by  the  thoughts  which  the 
work  conveyed,  — such  was  the  eloquence  of  the  one,  and  the  sym- 
pathizing  attention  of  the  other;  that,  as  they  stood  there  in 
striking  contrast,  forgetful  of  all  around,  they  were  themselves  a 
study,  if  not  for  the  artist,  for  the  observer  of  human  nature,  as 
manifested  in  novel  forms  and  free  from  affectation  and  worldli- 
aess. 

Then,  too,  as,  in  their  daily  walks,  or  gazing  upon  the  glories 
of  a  brilliant  winter's  night,  Gertrude,  enraptured  at  the  work 
of  the  great  Master  of  the  universe,  poured  out  without  reserve 
hei  soul's  deep  and  earnest  admiration,  dilated  upon  the  gorgeous- 
ness  of  a  clear  sunset,  or  in  the  sweet  hour  of  twilight  sat 
watching  the  coming  on  of  beautiful  night,  and  lighting  of  Heaven's 
lampSj  then  would  Emily,  from  the  secret  fountains  of  her  largely- 
illumined  nature,  speak  out  such  truths  of  the  inner  life  as  made 
it  seem  that  she  alone  were  blessed  with  the  true  light,  and  all 
the  seeing  world  sat  in  comparative  darkness. 

It  wau  a  blissful  and  an  improving  winter  which  they  thus 
passed  tL.gether.  They  lived  not  for  themselves  alone ;  the  poor 
blessed  them,  the  sorrowful  came  to  them  for  sympathy,  and  the 
affection  which  they  both  inspired  in  the  family  circle  was  bound- 
less. Gortrude  often  recurred  to  it,  in  her  after  life,  as  the  tinu. 
when  she  and  Emily  lived  in  a  beautiful  world  of  their  own. 
Spring  Clime,  and  passed,  and  still  they  lingered  there,  loth  to 
eave  a  place  where  they  had  been  so  happy ;  and  nothing  at  last 
Jrove  them  from  the  city,  but  a  sudden  failure  in  Emily's  health 
aiid  Dr.  Jeremy's  peremptory  command  that  they  should  at  once 
geek  the  country  air,  as  the  best  restorative. 

Added  to  her  anxiety  about  Emily;  Gertrude  began  to  feel 
much  troubled  at  Willie  Sullivan's  long  silence ;  no  word  from 
him  for  two  or  three  months.  Willie  could  not  have  forgotten  or 
meant  to  neglect  her.  That  was  impossible.  But  why  this 
strange  saspension  to  their  correspondence  ?    She  Iried,  however. 


B20 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


not  to  fee  disturbed  about  it,  and  gave  all  her  eare  to  Emily  wh« 
now  began  indeed  to  require  it. 

They  went  to  the  sea-side  for  a  few  weeks ;  but  the  clear  and 
bracing  atmosphere  brought  no  strength  to  the  bliiid  girl's  feeble 
frame.  She  was  obliged  to  give  up  her  daily  walks  ;  a  continued 
weariness  robbed  her  step  of  its  elasticity,  and  her  usually  equal 
spirits  were  subject  to  an  unwonted  depression,  while  her  nervous 
temperament  became  so  susceptible  that  the  utmost  care  was 
requisite  to  preserve  her  from  all  excitement. 

The  good  doctor  came  frequently  to  see  his  favorite  patient, 
but,  finding  on  every  visit  that  she  seemed  worse  instead  of  better, 
he  at  last  ordered  her  back  to  the  city,  declaring  that  Mrs.  Jer- 
ry's front  chamber  was  as  cool  and  comfortable  as  the  little 
stived-up  apartments  of  the  crowded  boarding-house  at  Nahant, 
and  there  he  should  insist  upon  both  her  and  Gertrude's  taking  up 
their  quarters,  at  least  for  a  week  or  two ;  at  the  end  of  which 
time,  if  Emily  had  not  found  her  health,  he  hoped  to  have  leisure 
to  start  off  with  them  in  search  of  it. 

Emily  thought  she  was  doing  very  well  where  she  was ;  was 
afraid  she  should  be  troublesome  to  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

"  Don't  talk  about  trouble,  Emily.    You  ought  to  know  Mr? 
Jerry  and  me  better,  by  this  time.    Come  up  to-morrow ;  I 
meet  you  at  the  cars  !    Good-by  !  "  and  he  took  his  hat  and  was 
off. 

Gertrude  followed  him.  "  I  see,  doctor,  you  think  Emily  is  not. 
BO  well." 

No  ;  how  should  she  be  ?  What  with  the  sea  roaring  on  one 
Bide,  and  Mrs.  Fellows'  babies  on  the  other,  it 's  enough  to  wear 
away  her  strength.  I  won't  have  it  so  !  This  is  n't  the  place  for 
bcr,  and  do  you  bring  her  up  to  my  house  to-morrow." 

"  The  babies  don't  usually  cry  as  much  as  they  have  to-day,' 
said  Gertrude,  smiling;  "  and  as  to  the  ocean,  Emily  loves  dearljf 
to  bear  the  waves  rolling  in.  She  sits  and  listens  to  them  by  the 
hour  together." 

"  Knew  she  did  !  "  said  the  doctor.  "  Shan't  do  it ;  bad  hi 
her  ;  it  makes  her  sad,  without  her  knowing  why.  Bring  her  up 
to  Boston,  as  I  tell  you." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


321 


.It  waft  full  ^hr3e  weeks  after  the  arrival  of  his  visitors  before 
iiie  popular  physijian  could  steal  away  from  his  patients  to  enjoy 
a  few  weeks  recreation  in  travelling.  For  his  ow  ^  sake  he  tsrould 
hardly  have  thought  of  attempting  so  unusual  a  thing  as  a  jour- 
ney ;  and  his  wife,  too,  loved  home  so  much  better  than  any  other 
phice,  that  she*  was  loth  to  start  for  parts  unknown  ;  but  both 
were  willing,  and  even  anxious,  to  sacrifice  their  long-indulged 
habits  for  what  they  considered  the  advantage  of  their  young 
friends. 

Emily  was  decidedly  better;  so  much  so  as  to  view  with  pleasure 
the  prospect  of  visiting  West  Point,  Catskill  and  Saratoga,  even 
on  her  own  account;  and  when  she  reflected  upon  the  probable 
enjoyment  the  trip  would  afford  Grertrude,  she  felt  herself  en- 
dowed with  new  strength  for  the  undertaking.  Gertrude  needed 
change  of  scene  and  diversion  of  mind  almost  as  much  as  Emily. 
The  excessive  heat  of  the  last  few  weeks,  and  her  constant  at- 
tendance in  the  invalid's  room,  had  paled  the  roses  in  her  cheeksj 
while  care  and  anxiety  had  weighed  upon  her  mind.  The  late 
improvement  in  Emily,  however,  and  the  alacrity  with  which  jse^ 
entered  into  the  doctor's  plans,  relieved  Gertrude  of  her  fears, 
and,  as  she  moved  actively  about  to  complete  the  few  preparations 
which  were  needed  in  her  own  and  her  friend's  wardrobe,  her 
step  was  as  light,  and  her  voice  as  gladsome,  as  her  fingers  were 
busy  and  skilful. 

New  York  was  their  first  destination  ;  but  the  heal^  and  dust 
of  the  city  were  almost  insufferable,  and  during  the  one  day  which 
they  passed  there  Dr.  Jerem.y  was  the  only  m.ember  of  the  party 
who  ventured  out  of  the  hotel,  except  on  occasion  of  a  short 
expedition  which  Mrs.  Jeremy  and  Gertrude  made  in  search  of 
dress-caps,  the  former  lady's  stock  being  still  limited  to  +he  old 
yellow  and  the  lilac-and-pink,  neither  of  which,  she  feared,  would 
be  just  the  thing  for  Saratoga. 

The  doctor,  however,  seemed  quite  insensible  to  the  state  of 
the  weather,  so  much  was  he  occupied  with  visits  to  some  of  hi& 
-ZKsculapian  brethren,  several  of  whom  were  college  clasS'matea 
•.vbom  he  had  not  seen  for  years.  He  passed  the  whole  day  in 
the  revival  of  old  acquaintances  and  associatior^s ;  and,  a  number 


S22 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


of  these  newlj-found  but  Tvarm-hearted  friends  having  presented 
themselves  at  the  hotel  in  the  evening,  to  be  introduced  to  Mrs, 
Jeremy  and  her  travelling  companions,  their  parlor  was  enlivened 
until  a  late  hour  by  the  happy  and  cheerful  conversation  of  a 
group  of  elderly  men,  who,  as  they  recalled  the  past  and  dwelt 
upon  the  scenes  and  incidents  of  their  youthful  <iays,  seemed  to 
renew  their  boyish  spirits,  so  joyous  was  the  laughter  and  excite- 
ment with  which  each  anecdote  of  former  times  received  as 
it  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  spokesman,  —  an  office  which  each  filled 
by  turns.  Dr.  Jeremy  had  been  a  great  favorite  among  his  eircle, 
and  almost  every  narrative  of  college  days  (save  those  which  he 
himself  detailed)  bore  reference  to  some  exploit  in  which  he  had 
borne  a  spirited  and  honorable  part;  and  the  three  female  auditors, 
especially  Gertrude,  who  was  enthusiastic  in  her  own  appreciation 
of  the  doctor's  merits,  listened  triumphantly  to  this  corroborative 
testimony  of  his  worth. 

The  conversation,  however,  was  not  of  a  character  to  exclude 
the  ladies  from  participating  in  as  well  as  enjoying  it ;  and  Ger- 
trude, who  always  got  on  famously  with  elderly  men,  and  whom 
the  doctor  loved  dearly  to  draw  out,  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
mirth  and  good-humor  of  the  company  by  her  playful  and  amusing 
sallies,  and  the  quickness  of  repartee  with  which  she  responded  to 
the  adroit,  puzzling,  and  sometimes  ironical  questions  and  jokes 
of  an  old-bachelor  physician,  who,  from  the  first,  took  a  wonder- 
ful fancy  to  her. 

Emily  listened  with  delighted  Interest  to  a  conversation  which 
had  for  her  such  varied  charms,  and  shared  with  Gertrude  the 
admiration  of  the  doctor's  friends,  who  were  all  excited  to  the 
warmest  sympathy  for  hev  misfortune  ;  while  Mrs.  Jeremy,  proud, 
Bmiling  and  happy,  look  ad  so  couiplacent  as  she  sat  ensconced  in 
Bu  arm-chair,  listening  1o  the  encomiums  pronounced  on  her  hus- 
band's boyhood,  that  G(;rtiude  declared,  as  they  separated  for  the 
night,  that  she  had  almost  conn;  to  the  conclusion  that  the  old 
yellow  was  bcccming  to  he.^,  and  her  new  caps  altogether  super- 
fluous. 

Upon  hearing  that  Dr.  Jtremy's  party  were  going  up  the  Ilud- 
sou  the  nex^.  F.rornin^,  Dr  Gry^-e^vs  orth,  of  Philadelphia,  who  hao 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


32b 


raanj  years  before  been  a  student  of  our  good  doctor X  expre&sed 
his  SJ^  tisfacticn  in  the  prospect  of  meeting  them  on  board  the 
boa:,  and  introducing  to  Gertrude  his  two  daughters,  whom  he  waa 
about  to  accompany  to  Saratoga  to  meet  their  grandmother, 
already  establ  shed  at  Congress  Hall  for  the  summer. 

It  was  midnight  before  Gertrude  could  compose  her  mind,  and 
80  far  quiet  her  imagination  (which,  always  lively,  was  now  keenly 
excited  by  the  next  day's  promise  of  pleasure)  as  to  think  of  the 
necessity  of  fortifying  herself  by  sleep ;  and  Emily  was  finally 
obliged  to  check  her  gayety  and  loquacity  by  positively  refusing 
to  join  in  another  laugh,  or  listen  to  another  word  that  night. 
Thus  condemned  to  silence,  she  sunk  at  once  to  slumber,  uncon- 
scious that  Emily,  usually  an  excellent  sleeper,  had,  in  this 
instance,  acted  solely  for  her  benefit,  being  herself  so  strangely 
wakeful  that  morning  found  her  unrefreshed,  and  uncertain 
whether  she  had  once  during  the  night  been  lulled  into  a  perfect 
state  of  repose. 

Gertrude,  who  slept  soundly  until  wakened  by  Miss  Graham, 
started  up  in  astonishment  on  seeing  her  dressed  and  standing  by 
the  bed-side, —  a  most  unusual  circumstance,  and  one  which  re- 
versed the  customary  order  of  things,  as  Gertrude's  morning  kiss 
was  wont  to  be  Emily's  first  intimation  of  daylight. 

"  Six  o'clock,  Gerty,  and  the  boat  starts  at  seven  !  The  doc- 
tor has  already  been  knocking  at  our  door." 

How  soundly  I  have  slept !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude.  "  I  won- 
der if  it 's  a  pleasant  day." 

"  Beautiful,"  replied  Emily,  "  but  very  warm.  The  sun  was 
shining  in  so  brightly,  that  I  had  to  close  the  blinds  on  account 
of  the  heat." 

Gertrude  made  haste  to  repair  for  lost  time,  but  was  not  quite 
dressed  when  they  were  summoned  to  the  early  breakfast  pre- 
pared for  travellers.  She  had,  also,  her  own  and  Emily's  trunka 
to  lock,  and  therefore  insisted  upon  the  others  preceding  her  to 
the  breakfast-hall,  where  she  promised  to  join  them  in  a  few 
moments. 

The  company  assembled  at  this  early  hour  was  small,  consist* 
ing  only  of  two  parties  beside  Dr.  Jeremy  s,  and  a  few  gentiemen^ 


«24 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


most  of  them  business  men,  who,  having  partaken  ol*  their  foot 
in  a  business-like  manner,  started  off  in  haste  for  their  different 
destinations.  Of  those  who  still  lingered  at  the  table  when  Gerty 
made  her  appearance,  there  was  only  one  whom  she  particularly 
observed,  during  the  few  moments  allowed  her  by  Dr.  Jeremy  for 
the  enjoyment  of  her  breakfast. 

This  was  a  gentleman  who  sat  at  some  distance  from  her,  idly 
balancing  his  tea-spooQ  on  the  ed^e  of  his  cup.  He  had  con- 
cluded his  own  repast,  but  seemed  quite  at  his  leisure,  and  pre- 
vious to  G-ertrude's  entrance  had  won  Mrs.  Jeremy's  animadversions 
by  a  slight  propensity  he  had  manifested  to  make  a  more  critical 
survey  of  her  party  than  she  found  wholly  agreeable.  "  Do, 
pray,"  said  she  to  the  doctor,  "  send  the  waiter  to  ask  that  man 
to  take  something  himself :  I  can't  bear  to  have  anybody  looking 
at  me  so  when  I 'm  eatintr !  " 

"He  is  n't  looking  at  you,  wife  ;  it 's  Emily  that  has  taken  his 
fancy.  •  Emily,  my  dear,  there 's  a  gentleman,  over  opposite,  who 
admires  you  exceedingly." 

"  Is  there  ?  "  said  Emily,  smiling.  "  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  him.    May  I  venture  to  return  the  compliment  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He 's  a  fine-looking  fellow,  though  wife,  here,  does  n' 
seem  to  like  him  very  well." 

At  this  moment  Grertrude  joined  them,  and,  as  she  made  her 
morning  salutation  to  the  doctor  and  his  wife,  and  gayly  apologized 
to  the  former  for  her  tardiness,  the  fine  color  which  mantled  her 
countenance,  and  the  deep  brilliancy  of  her  large  dark  eyes,  drew 
glances  of  affectionate  admiration  from  the  kind  old  couple,  and 
were,  perhaps,  the  cause  of  the  stranger's  attention  being  at  once 
transferred  from  the  lovely  and  interesting  face  of  Emily  to  the 
more  youthful,  beaming  and  eloquent  features  of  Gertrude. 

She  had  hardly  taken  her  seat  before  she  became  aware  of  the 
notice  she  was  attracting.  It  embarrassed  her,  and  she  was  giad 
when,  after  a  moment  or  two,  the  gentleman  hastily  dropped  his 
tea-spoon,  rose  and  left  the  room.  As  he  passed  out,  she  had  an 
opportunity  of  observing  him,  which  she  had  not  ventured  to  da 
While  he  sat  opposite  to  her. 

He  was  a  man  considerably  above  the  middle  height,  slender 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


325 


out  finely  formed,  and  of  a  graceful  and  digniied  bearing.  Hia 
features  wore  rather  sharp,  but  expressive,  and  e\en  handsome 
his  eyes,  dark,  keen  and  piercing,  had  a  most  penetrating  look, 
while  hk  firmly-compressed  lips  spoke  of  resolution  and  strength 
of  will. 

But  the  chief  peculiarity  of  his  appearance  was  his  hair, 
which  was  deeply  tinged  with  gmy,  and  la  the  vicinity  of  hia 
temples  almost  snowy  white.  This  was  so  jitrikingly  in  contrast 
with  the  youthful  fire  of  his  eye,  and  the  easy  lightness  of  hia 
step,  that,  instead  of  seeming  the  effect  of  age,  and  giving  him  a 
title  to  veneration,  it  rather  enhanced  the  contradictory  claims  of 
hijj  otherwise  apparent  youth  and  vigor. 

"  What  a  queer-looking  man  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jeremy,  when 
he  had  passed  out. 

An  elegant-looking  man,  is  n't  he  ?  "  said  Gertrude. 
Elegant  ?  "  rejoined  Mrs.  Jeremy.      What !  with  that  gray 
head?" 

"I  think  it's  beautiful,"  said  Gertrude;  "but  I  wish  he 
did  n't  look  so  melancholy  ;  it  makes  me  quite  sad  to  see  him.'^ 

"  How  old  should  you  think  he  was  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Jeremy. 

"  About  fifty,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy. 
About  thirty,"  said  Gertrude,  and  both  in  the  same  breath. 
A  wide  difference,"  remarked  Emily.       Doctor,  you  must 
decide  the  point."  y 

^'Impossible!  I  wouldn't  venture  to  tell  that  man's  ago 
within  ten  years,  at  least.  Wife  has  got  him  old  enough,  cer- 
tainly :  I 'm  not  sure  but  I  should  set  him  as  low  even  as  Ger- 
trude's mark.  Age  never  turned  kis  hair  gray  —  that  is  certain." 

Intimation  was  now  given  that  passengers  for  the  boat  must  be 
on  the  alert;  and  all  speculation  upon  the  probable  age  of  the 
stranger  (a  fruitless  kind  of  speculation,  often  indulged  in,  and, 
sometimes  a  source  of  vain  and  endkss  discussion)  was  suddeolj 
bia  J  ^'Cremptorily  suspended. 


CHAPTER  XXX?. 

His  mien  is  lofty,  but  his  gaze 
loo  well  a  wandering  soul  betrays  . 
His  full,  dark  eye  at  times  is  bright 
With  strange  and  momentary  light. 
And  oft  his  features  and  his  air 
A  shade  of  troubled  mystery  wear, — 
A  glance  of  hurried  wildness,  fraught 
With  some  unfathomallc  thought. 

Mrs.  Hema-WS. 


To  luost  of  our  travelling  public  a  little  trip  from  i  cstcn  riita 
New  York  State  seems  an  everj-day  affair,  scarce  worih  calling 
a  journey  ;  but  to  Dr.  Jeremy  it  was  a  momentous  event,  calling 
the  good  physician  out  of  a  routine  of  daily  professional  visits, 
which,  during  a  period  of  twenty  years,  had  not  been  interrupted 
by  a  week's  absence  from  home,  and  plunging  him  at  once  into 
that  whirl  of  hurry,  tumult  and  excitement,  which  exists  on  all 
)ur  great  routes,  especially  in  the  summer  season,  the  time  when 
the  American  populace  takes  its  yearly  pleasure  excursion. 

The  doctor  was  by  nature  and  habit  a  social  being;  never 
shrinking  from  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men,  but  rather  seek- 
ino"  and  enjoying  their  companionship  on  all  occasions.  He  knew 
how  to  adapt  himself  to  the  taste  of  young  and  old,  rich  and 
poor,  and  was  well  acquainted  with  city  life  in  all  its  forms.  Itt 
the  art  of  travelling,  however,  — an  art  to  be  acquired  by  practice 
only,  — he  was  totally  unversed.  He  had  yet  to  learn  the  adroit 
use  of  those  many  springs,  which,  touched  at  the  right  mo- 
ment, and  by  a  skilful  hand,  soften  the  obdurate  hearts  of 
landlords,  win  the  devoted  attendance  of  wiiters,  inspire  railroad 
conductors  and  i^tcamboat  officials  with  a  spirit  of  accommodation 
and  convert  tho  clamorous,  noisj  hackmen  into  quiet,  obediont 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


and  humble  servauts  at  command.  In  Dr.  Jeremy's  travelling 
days  the  stage-coach  was  the  chief  vehicle  of  convenience  and 
speed ;  the  driver  was  a  civil  fellow,  each  passenger  a  person  of 
consequence,  and  each  passenger's  baggage  a  thing  not  to  be 
despised.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  people  moved  in  masses ;  a 
single  individual  was  a  man  of  no  influence,  a  mere  unit  in  the 
great  whole,  and  his  much-valued  luggage  that  which  seemed  in 
his  eyes  a  mark  for  the  heaviest  knocks  and  bruises.  Dr.  Jeremy 
was  appalled  at  this  new  state  of  things,  and  quite  unable  to 
reconcile  to  it  either  his  taste  or  temper.  To  him  the  modern 
landlord  resembled  the  keeper  of  an  intelligence-office,  who  con- 
descendingly glances  at  his  books  to  see  if  he  can  furnish  the 
humble  suppliant  with  a  situation,  and  often  turns  him  away 
mortified  and  disappointed ;  the  waiters,  whom  the  honest  and 
unsophisticated  doctor  scorned  to  bribe,  were  an  impudent,  lazy 
Bet  of  varlets  ;  conductors  and  steamboat  masters,  lordly  tyrants  ; 
and  the  hackmen,  a  swarm  of  hungry,  buzzing,  stinging  wasps, 
let  loose  on  wharves  and  in  depots  for  the  torment  of  their 
victims. 

Thus  were  these  important  members  of  society  stigmatized,  and 
loudly  were  they  railed  at  by  our  traveller,  who  invariably,  at 
the  commencement  and  close  of  every  trip,  got  wrought  up  to  a 
high  pitch  of  excitement  at  the  wrongs  and  indignities  to  which 
he  was  subjected.  It  was  astonishing,  however,  to  see  how 
quickly  he  cooled  down,  and  grew  comfortable  and  contented, 
when  he  was  once  established  in  car  or  steamboat,  or  had  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  suitable  quarters  at  a  hotel.  He  would  then 
immediately  subside  into  the  obliging,  friendly  and  sociable  man 
of  the  world ;  would  make  acquaintance  with  everybody  about 
him,  and  talk  and  behave  with  such  careless  unconcern,  that  quo 
would  have  supposed  he  considered  himself  fixed  for  life,  an.^ 
was  moreorcr  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  fate  that  destiny  had 
assigned  to  him. 

Thankful,  therefore,  were  the  ladies  of  his  party  when  they 
were  safe  on  board  the  steamboat  a  circumstance  upon  which 
they  were  still  congratulating  themselves  and  each  other,  while 
they  piled  up  their  heavy  shawls  and  other  extra  garments  in  an 


B28 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


orit-of-tbe-way  corner  of  the  cabin,  when  the  doctors  voloi  ^as 
again  heard  calling  to  them  from  the  other  end  of  the  .cng 
Baioon  :  "  Come,  come,  wife,  — Gertrude,  —  Emily  !  what  ar^  ycu 
staying  down  in  this  stived-up  place  for  ?  you  '11  lose  thf.  best 
part  of  the  view and,  coming  towards  them,  he  took  Gertrude's 
arm,  and  would  have  h-arried  her  away,  leaving  Mrs.  Jeremy  and 
Emily  to  follow  when  they  were  ready  ;  but  Gertrude  would  not 
trust  Emily  to  ascend  the  cabin-stairs  under  any  guardianship 
but  her  own,  and  Mrs.  Jeremy  immediately  engaged  the  doctor 
in  z.i  animated  discussion  as  to  the  advisability  of  his  adoptincr  a 
straw  hat,  which  the  thoughtful  wife  had  brought  from  home  in 
her  hand,  and  which  she  was  eager  to  see  enjoyed.    By  the  time 
the  question  was  settled,  and  Emily,  at  Gertrude's  persuasion, 
had  been  induced  to  exchange  her  thin  mantilla  for  a  light  trav- 
elling-cloak,  which  the  latter  was  sure  she  would  require,  as  there 
was  a  fresh  breeze  stirring  on  the  river,  the  boat  had  proceeded 
some  distance;  and  when  our  party  finally  gained  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  and  looked  about  them  for  seats  on  deck,  not  a 
single  vacant  bench  or  accommodation  of  any  sort  was  to  be 
>jeen.    There  was  an  unusually  large  number  of  passengers, 
nearly  all  of  whom  were  collected  at  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Dr. 
Jeremy  was  obliged  to  leave  his  ladies,  and  go  off  in  search  of 
chairs. 

Don't  let  us  stay  here! "  whispered  Mrs.  Jeremy  to  Gertrude 
and  Emily.  Let 's  go  right  back,  before  the  doctor  comes  ! 
There  are  beautiful  great  rocking-chairs  down  in  the  cabin,  with- 
out  a  soul  to  sit  in  them,  and  I 'm  sure  we  an't  wanted  hero 
to  make  up  a  company.  I  hate  to  stand  with  all  these  peop^o 
staring  at  us,  and  crowing  to  think  they 've  got  such  nice  places ; 
don't  you,  Emily? " 

Mrs.  Jeremy  was  one  of  the  people  who  were  constantly  for- 
getting that  Emily  could  not  see. 

^  But  Gertrude  was  not  — she  never  forgot  it ;  and,  as  she 
stood  with  her  arm  lightly  passed  around  her  friend's  waist,  to 
prevent  the  motion  of  the  boat  from  throwing  her  off  her  balance, 
it  was  no  wonder  they  attracted  attention  ;  the  one  so  bright, 
erect,  anr]  strong  with  youth  and  health,  that  she  seemed  a  ^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


32S 


protector  for  the  other,  who,  in  her  sweet  and  gentle  helplessness, 
eaned  upon  her  io  trustingly. 

"I  think,  when  we  get  seated  in  the  shade,  we  shall  fiii^ 
it  cooler  here  than  it  is  below,"  said  Emily,  in  reply  to  3Irs.  Jere- 
my's urgent  proposition  that  they  should  make  their  escape  in 
ihe  doctor's  absence.  "  You  always  prefer  the  coolest  place,  I 
beli%"ve.'' 

"  So  I  do ;  but  I  noticed  there  was  a  good  draught  of  air  in  tlie 
adies'  saloon,  and  — "  Here  the  good  woman's  argument  was  inter- 
mpted  by  the  cordial  salutation  of  Dr.  Gryseworth,  who,  pre- 
viously seated  with  his  back  towards  them,  had  turned  at  the  sound 
of  Emily's  flute-like  voice,  which,  once  heard,  invariably  left  an 
impression  upon  the  memory.  When  he  had  finished  shaking 
hands,  he  insisted  upon  giving  up  his  seat  to  Mrs.  Jeremy ;  and,  at 
the  same  instant,  another  gentleman,  who,  owing  to  the  throng  of 
passengers,  had  hitherto  been  unnoticed  by  our  party,  rose,  and 
bowing  politely,  placed  his  own  chair  for  the  accommodation  of 
Emiiy,  and  then  walked  quickly  away.  It  was  the  stranger  whom 
they  had  seen  at  breakfast.  Gertrude  recognized  his  keen,  dark 
eye,  even  before  she  perceived  his  singular  hair;  and,  as  she 
thanked  him,  and  placed  Emily  in  the  ofiered  seat,  she  felt  her- 
self color  under  his  earnest  glance.  But  Dr.  Gryseworth  imme- 
diately claimed  her  attention  for  the  introduction  to  his  daughters, 
and  all  thought  of  the  retreating  stranger  was  banished  for  the 
present. 

The  Miss  Gryseworths  were  intelligent-looking  girls ;  the  eldest, - 
lately  returned  from  Europe,  where  she  had  been  travelling  with 
her  father,  was  considered  a  very  elegant  and  superior  person,  and 
Gertrude  was  charmed  with  the  lady-like  cordiality  with  whicb. 
they  both  made  her  acquaintance,  and  still  more  with  the  amiable 
and  sympathizing  attentions  which  they  paid  to  Emily. 

By  the  time  that  Dr.  Jerem^  returned  with  the  solitary  chair 
which  ho  had  been  able  to  obtain,  he  found  Gertrude  and  Dr 
Gryseworth  comfortably  accommodated,  through  the  skilful  agency 
of  the  latter,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  sink  at  once  into  his  eeat 
and  subside  into  that  state  of  easy  unconcern  which  admirab^V 
became  his  pleasant,  genial  temperament 
28=^ 


330 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Long  before  the  boat  reacned  West  Point,  where  the  J  eremyi! 
were  to  go  on  shore,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  an  ex(X'llen1 
anderstanding  subsisted  between  Gertrude  and  the  Miss  Gryse- 
worths,  and  that  time  only  was  wanting  to  ripen  thtir  acquaint- 
ance  into  friendship. 

Gertrude  was  not  one  of  those  young  persons  who  consider  every 
girl  of  their  own  age  entitled  to  their  immediate  intimacy  and  con 
fidence.  She  had  her  decided  preferences,  and,  though  invariably 
civil  and  obliging,  was  rarely  disposed  to  admit  new  members  into 
her  sacred  circle  of  friends.  She  was  quick,  however,  to  recog- 
nize a  congenial  spirit ;  and  such  an  one,  once  found,  was  claimed 
by  her  enthusiastic  nature,  and  engrafted  into  her  affections  as 
something  of  kindred  birth.  Nor  was  the  readily  adopted  tie 
easily  loosened  or  broken.  V/hom  Gertrude  once  loved,  she  loved 
long  and  well ;  faithful  was  she  in  her  efforts  to  serve,  and  prompt 
in  her  sympathy  to  feel  for  those  whose  interest  and  happiness 
friendship  made  dear  to  her  as  her  own. 

Perhaps  Ellen  Gryseworth  divined  this  trait  of  her  character, 
appreciated  the  value  of  so  steady  and  truthful  a  regard ;  for 
rhe  certainly  tried  hard  to  win  it;  and  her  father,  who  had  heard 
Gertrude's  history  from  Dr.  Jeremy,  smiled  approvingly,  as  he 
witnessed  the  pains  which  his  high-bred  and  somewhat  aristocratic 
daughter  was  taking  to  render  herself  agreeable  to  one  whose 
social  position  had  in  it  nothing  to  excite  her  ambition,  and  whose 
person,  mind  and  manners,  constituted  her  sole  recommendation. 

They  had  been  for  about  an  hour  engaged  in  the  enjoyment  of 
each  other's  society,  and  in  the  view  of  some  of  the  most  charming 
ecenery  in  the  world,  when  Netta  Gryseworth  touched  her  sister's 
arm,  and,  glancing  towards  another  part  of  the  boat,  said,  in  an 
under  tone,  Ellen,  do  invite  Mr.  Phillips  to  come  back  and  bo 
introduced  to  Miss  Flint!— see  how  lonesome  the  poor  man 
ooks." 

Gertrude  followed  the  direction  of  Netta's  eye,  and  saw  the 
gt-ranger  of  the  morning  at  some  distance  from  them,  slo^rly 
pacing  up  and  down,  with  a  serious  and  abstracted  air. 

"  He  has  not  been  near  us  for  an  hour,"  said  Nettao  "  I  aa 
ifraid  he  har  got  the  blues.  ' 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


331 


•*  I  Iiop«i  we  have  not  fjiri^htened  your  friend  away,  ^  said 
Gertrude. 

"O,  no,  indeed!"  replied  Ellen.  "Although  Mr.  Phillips  is 
but  a  recent  acquaintance,  we  have  found  him  so  independent,  and 
sometimes  so  whimsical,  that  I  am  never  astonished  at  his  pro- 
ceedings, or  mortified  at  being  suddenly  forsaken  by  him.  There 
are  some  people,  you  know,  for  whom  it  is  always  sufficient  excuoe 
to  say.  It  is  their  way,  I  wish  he  would  condescend  to  join  m 
again,  however;  I  should  like  to  introduce  him  to  you,  Miaa 
Flint." 

"  You  wouldn't  like  him,"  said  Netta. 

**  Now,  that  is  not  fair,  Netta !  "  exclaimed  her  sister  ;  "  to  try 
and  prejudice  Miss  Flint  against  my  friend.  You  must  n't  let  her 
influence  you,"  added  she,  addressing  Gertrude.  "She  hasn't 
known  him  half  as  long  as  I  have ;  and  I  do  not  dislike  him,  by 
any  means.  My  little,  straightforward  sister  never  likes  odd 
people,  and  I  must  confess  that  Mr.  Phillips  is  somewhat  eccen- 
tric ;  ])ut  he  interests  me  all  the  more  on  that  account,  and  I  feel 
positive  he  and  you  would  have  many  ideas  and  sentiments  in 
common." 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Ellen  ?  "  said  Netta.  "  I  think  they  aro 
totally  different." 

"You  mu;;t  consider  Netta's  remark  very  complimentary,  Miss 
Flint,"  said  Ellen,  good-naturedly ;  "  it  would  not  be  quite  so 
much  so,  if  it  had  come  from  me." 

"  But  you  wished  me  to  become  acquainted  with  your  oddity," 
remarked  Gertrude,  addressing  herself  to  Netta.  "  I  suspect  you 
act  on  the  principle  that  one's  misfortunes  should  be  shared  by 
one's  friends." 

Netta  laughed.  *  Not  exactly,"  said  she ;  "  it  was  compas- 
gion  for  him,  that  moved  me.  I  can't  help  pitying  him  when 
he  looks  sc  homesick,  ^nd  I  thought  your  society  would  brignfeD 
him  up  and  do  him  good." 

"  Ah,  Nett-i !  Netta  !  "  cried  her  sister  ;  "  he  has  excited  your 
S3^npathy,  I  -^e.  A  few  days  more,  and  I  should  n't  be  surprised 
if  you  went  oeyond  me  in  your  admiration  of  him.  If  so,  take 
oare,  you  transparent  creature,  not  to  betra^  your  inconsistency/ 


832 


THE  Lamplighter. 


Then,  turning  to  Gertrude,  she  said,  "  Netta  met  Mr.  Phillips 
yesterday  for  the  first  time,  and  has  not  seemed  very  favorably 
impressed.  Father  and  I  were  passengers  in  the  same  steamer  in 
which  he  came  from  Liverpool,  a  few  weeks  ago.  He  had  an  ill 
turn  in  the  early  part  of  the  voyage,  and  it  was  in  d  professional 
way  that  father  first  made  his  acquaintance.  I  was  surprised  at 
seeing  him  on  board  the  boat  to-day,  for  he  mentioned  no  such 
intention  yesterday." 

Gertrude  suspected  that  the  agreeable  young  lady  might  her- 
self  be  the  cause  of  his  journey ;  but  she  did  not  say  so, — her  native 
delicacy  and  the  slight  knowledge  she  had  of  the  parties  forbade 
such  an  allusion,  —  and  the  conversation  soon  taking  another  turn, 
Mr.  Phillips  was  not  again  adverted  to,  though  Gertrude  observed, 
just  before  the  boat  stopped  at  West  Point,  that  Dr.  Jeremy  and 
Dr.  Gryseworth,  having  left  their  party,  had  joined  him,  and  that 
the  trio  were  engaged  in  a  colloquy  which  seemed  to  possess  equal  ; 
interest  to  them  all. 

At  West  Point  Gertrude  parted  from  her  new  friends,  who 
expressed  an  earnest  hope  that  they  should  again  meet  in  Saratoga ; 
and  before  the  bustle  of  going  on  shore  had  subsided,  and  she  had 
found  on  the  narrow  pier  a  safe  place  of  refuge  for  Emily  and  her- 
self, the  boat  was  far  up  the  river,  and  the  Miss  Gryseworths 
quite  imdistinguishable  among  the  crowd  that  swarmed  the  deck. 

Our  travellers  passed  one  night  only  at  West  Point.  The 
weather  continued  extremely  hot,  and  Dr.  Jeremy,  perceiving  that 
Emily  drooped  under  the  oppressive  atmosphere,  was  desirous  to 
reach  the  summit  of  Catskill  Mountain  before  the  Sabbath,  which 
was  now  near  at  hand. 

One  solitary  moonlight  evening,  however,  sufficed  to  give  Ger* 
trude  some  idea  of  the  beauties  of  the  place.  She  had  no  oppor 
tunity  to  observe  it  in  detail ;  she  saw  it  only  as  a  whole ;  but,  thus 
presented  to  her  vision  in  all  the  dreamy  loveliness  of  a  summer 'a 
night,  it  left  on  her  fresh  and  impressive  mind  a  vague  sentiment 
cf  tr-^'.^der  and  delight  at  the  surpassing  sweetness  of  what  seemed 
rather  a  glimpse  of  Paradise  than  an  actual  show  of  earth,  so  har* 
monious  w*as  the  scene,  so  calm,  so  still,  so  peaceful.  "  Emilyi 
darling,"  said  sh^  as  they  stood  together  in  a  rustic  arbor,  ccn> 


THE  LiAMPLIGHTER. 


33» 


mandmg  llie  most  striking  prospect  both  of  the  river  and  the  shore, 
"  it  looks  like  jou  you  ought  to  live  here,  and  be  the  priestess  of 
Buch  a  temple  ! "  and,  locking  her  hand  in  that  of  Fanily,  she 
Doured  into  her  attentive  ear  the  holy  and  elevated  sentiments  to 
which  the  time  and  the  place  gave  birth.  To  pour  out  her 
thought  to  Emily  was  like  whispering  to  her  own  heart,  and  the 
responfie  to  those  thoughts  was  as  sure  and  certain. 

So  passed  the  evening  away,  and  an  early  hour  in  the  morning 
found  them  again  steaming  up  the  river.  Their  first  day's  expe- 
rience having  convinced  them  of  the  danger  of  delay,  they  lost  no 
time  in  securing  places  on  deck,  for  the  boat  was  as  crowded  as  on 
the  previous  morning  ;  but  the  shores  of  West  Point  were  hardly 
passed  from  their  view  before  Gertrude's  watchful  eye  detected  in 
Emily's  countenance  the  well-known  signs  of  weariness  and  debil- 
ity. Sacrificing,  without  hesitation,  the  intense  pleasure  she  was 
herself  deriving  from  the  beautiful  scenes  through  which  the  boat 
was  at  the  moment  passing,  she  at  once  proposed  that  they  should 
seek  the  cabin,  where  Miss  Graham  might  rest  in  greater  stillness 
and  comfort. 

Emily,  however,  would  not  listen  to  the  proposal ;  wotild  not 
think  of  depriving  Gertrude  of  the  rare  pleasure  she  knew  she 
must  be  experiencing. 

"  The  prospec  is  all  lost  upon  me  now,  Emily,"  said  Gertrude. 
"  I  see  only  your  tired  face.  Do  go  and  lie  down,  if  it  be  only  to 
please  me ;  you  hardly  slept  at  all  last  night." 

"Are  you  talking  of  going  below  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jeremy. 
I,  for  one,  shall  be  thankful  to  ;  it 's  as  comfortable  again,  and 
we  can  see  all  we  want  to  from  the  cabin-windows;  can't  we, 
Emily  ?  " 

"  Should  you  really  preier  it  ?  "  inquired  Emily. 

"  Indeed,  I  should  ! "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  with  such  emphans 
ihat  her  sincerity  could  not  be  doubted. 

Th  n,  if  yo  i  will  promise  to  stay  here,  Gertrude,"  said  Errilj, 
"  I  wii]  go  with  Mrs.  Jeremy." 

Gertrude  assented  to  the  plan ;  but  insisted  upon  first  accompany 
lug  them,  to  find  a  vacant  berth  for  Emily,  and  see  h-sr  under  cir- 
cumstances which  would  promise  repose. 


834 


THE  tii- MPLIGHTLH 


Dr.  Jeremy  havlag.  in  the  mean  time,  gone  to  inquire  tkhoViX 
dinner,  tliey  at  once  carried  their  plan  into  effect,  Emily  wad 
really  too  weak  to  endure  the  noise  and  confusion  on  deck,  and, 
after  she  had  lain  down  in  the  quiet  and  nearly  deserted  saloon, 
Gertrude  stood  smoothing  back  her  hair,  and  watching  her  pale 
countenance,  until  she  was  accused  of  violating  the  conditions 
of  their  agreement,  and  was  at  last  driven  away  by  the  lively  and 
good-natured  doctor's  lady,  who  declared  herself  perfectly  well 
able  to  take  care  of  Emily. 

"  You 'd  better  make  haste  back,"  said  she,  "  before  you  lose 
your  seat ;  and  mind,  Gerty,  don't  let  the  doctor  come  near  us ; 
he  '11  be  teasing  us  to  go  back  again,  and  we 've  no  idea  of  doing 
any  such  thing."  Saying  which,  Mrs.  Jeremy  untied  her  bonnet- 
:ftrings,  put  her  feet  up  in  the  opposite  chair,  clapped  her  hands  at 
Gertrude,  and  bade  her  be  gone. 

Gertrude  ran  off  laughing,  and  a  smile  was  still  on  her  face 
when  she  reached  the  staircase.  As  she  came  up  with  her  usual 
quick  and  light  step,  a  tall  figure  moved  aside  to  let  her  pass.  It 
was  Mr.  Phillips.  He  bowed,  and  Gertrude,  returning  the  salu- 
tation, passed  on  to  the  place  she  had  left,  wondering  how  he 
cam.e  to  be  again  their  travelling  companion.  He  could  not  have 
been  on  board  previously  to  her  going  below  with  Emily  ;  she  was 
sure  she  should  have  seen  him  ;  she  should  have  known  him  among 
a  thousand.  He  must  have  taken  the  boat  at  Newburgh  ;  it  stopped 
there  while  she  was  in  the  cabin. 

As  these  reflections  passed  through  her  mind,  she  resumed  hei 
seat,  which  was  placed  at  the  very  stern  of  the  boat,  and,  with 
her  back  to  most  of  the  couLjaiij,  zed  out  upon  the  river.  She 
had  sat  thus  for  about  five  minutes,  her  thoughts  divided  between 
the  scenery  and  the  interesting  countenance  of  the  stranger,  when 
a  shadow  passed  before  her,  and  looking  up,  prepared  to  see  and 
address  Dr.  Jeremy,  she  betrayed  a  little  confusion  at  agair 
encountering  a  pair  of  eyes  whose  earnest,  magnetic  gaze  had  the 
power  to  disconcert  and  bewilder  her.  She  was  turning  away, 
aomewhat  abruptly,  wheu  the  stranger  spoke. 

"  Go(  d'U:r^rnir-g,  -oung  .ady !  our  paths  still  lie  in  the  samo 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


835 


direction,  I  see.  Will  vou  honor  me  by  making  use  of  my  ^ide- 
book  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  offered  her  a  little  book  containing  a  map  of 
the  river,  and  the  shores  on  either  side.  Gertrude  took  it,  and 
thanked  him.  As  she  unfolded  the  map,  he  stationed  himself  2 
few  steps  distant,  and  leaned  over  the  railing,  in  an  apparentij 
absent  state  of  mind ;  nor  did  he  speak  to  her  again  for  some  miD 
utes.  Then,  suddenly  turning  towards  her,  he  said,  You  lik^ 
all  this  very  much." 

«  Yery  much,"  said  Gertrude. 

'  You  have  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  before  in  youi 
life  "    He  did  not  seem  to  question  her  ;  he  spoke  as  if  he  knew 

"  It  is  an  old  story  to  you,  I  suppose,"  said  Gertrude 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  he,  smiling. 

Q  ertrude  was  disconcerted  by  his  look,  and  still  more  by  hia 
Bmile  ;  it  changed  his  whole  face  so,  —  it  made  him  look  so  hand- 
Bome,  and  yet  so  melancholy.  She  blushed,  and  could  not 
reply ;  he  saved  her  the  trouble.  —  "  That  is  hardly  a  fair  question, 
is  it  ?  You  probably  think  you  have  as  much  reason  for  your 
opinion  as  I  had  for  mine.  You  are  wrong,  however ;  I  never  was 
here  before ;  but  I  am  too  old  a  traveller  to  carry  my  enthusiasm 
in  my  eyes  —  as  you  do,"  added  he,  after  a  moment's  pause 
iuring  which  he  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  Then,  seeming,  fo' 
the  first  time,  to  perceive  the  embarrassment  which  his  scrutiny  of 
her  features  occasioned,  he  turned  away,  and  a  shadow  passed 
over  his  fine  countenance,  lending  it  for  a  moment  an  expressior 
of  mingled  bitterness  and  pathos,  which  served  at  once  to  iisarn? 
Gertrude's  confusion  at  his  self-introduction  and  subsequent 
remarks,  and  render  her  forgetful  of  everything  but  the  strange 
interest  with  which  this  singular  man  inspired  her. 

Presently,  taking  a  vacant  chair  next  hers,  he  directed  her 
•attention  to  a  beautiful  country  residence  on  their  right,  spol?o  of 
its  former  owner,  whom  he  had  met  in  a  foreign  land,  and  related 
some  interesting  anecdotes  concerning  an  adventurous  journey 
wnlch  they  had  taken  together.  This  again  introduced  other 
topics,  chiefly  connected  with  wanderings  in  countries  almosi 
unknown,  evexi  in  this  explor'ng  age ;  and  so  lich  and  varied  wwi 


33(5 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


the  stranger's  conversation,  so  graphic  were  his  descriptions,  so 
exuberant  and  glowing  his  imagination,  and  so  powerful  his 
command  of  words  and  his  gift  at  expressing  and  giving  force  to 
his  thoughts,  that  his  young  and  enthusiastic  listener  sat  entranced 
with  admiration  and  delight. 

Her  highly-wrought  and  intellectual  nature  sympathized  fully 
with  the  fervor  and  poetry  of  a  mind  as  sensitive  as  her  own  to 
the  great  and  wonderful,  whether  in  nature  or  art ;  and,  her  fancy 
and  interest  thus  taken  by  storm,  her  calm  and  observant  enter- 
tainer had  soon  the  satisfaction  of  perceiving  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  disarming  her  diffidence  and  embarrassment ;  for,  as  she 
listened  to  his  words,  and  even  met  the  occasional  glance  of  his 
dark  eyes,  her  animated  and  beaming  countenance  no  longer 
showed  signs  of  fear  or  distrust. 

He  took  no  advantage,  however,  of  the  apparent  self-forgetful* 
ness  with  which  she  enjoyed  his  society,  but  continued  to  enlarge 
upon  such  subjects  as  naturally  presented  themselves,  and  was 
careful  not  to  disturb  her  equanimity  by  again  bestowing  upon 
her  the  keen  and  scrutinizing  gaze  which  had  proved  so  discon- 
certing. By  the  time,  therefore,  that  Dr.  Jeremy  came  in  search 
of  his  young  charge,  conversation  between  her  and  the  stranger 
had  assumed  so  much  ease  and  freedom  from  restraint  that  the 
doctor  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  exclaimed,  "  This  is  pretty  well,  I  declare  !  " 

Gertrude  did  not  see  the  doctor  approach,  but  looked  up  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice.  Conscious  of  the  surprise  it  must  be  to  him 
to  find  her  talking  so  familiarly  with  a  complete  stranger,  she 
colored  slightly  at  his  abrupt  remark;  but,  observing  that  her 
companion  was  quite  unconcerned,  and  even  received  it  with  a 
emile,  she  felt  herself  rather  amused  than  embarrassed ;  for, 
strangely  enough,  the  latter  feeling  had  almost  entirely  vanished, 
and  she  had  come  to  feel  confidence  in  her  fellow-traveller,  who 
rose,  shook  hands  with  Dr.  Jeremy,  to  whom  he  had,  the  previous 
day,  been  introduced,  and  said,  with  perfect  composure,  "  Will 
you  have  the  kindness,  sir,  to  present  me  to  this  young  lady  ? 
We  have  ah-eady  had  some  conversation  together,  but  do  not  yet 
know  by  what  name  we  may  address  each  other." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


337 


Dr  Jeremy  having  performed  the  ceremony  of  introJucticn, 
Mr.  Phillips  bowed  gracefully,  and  looked  at  Ge^^trude  in  such 
a  benignant,  fatherly  way  that  she  hesitated  not  to  take  his 
offered  hand.  Pie  detained  hers  a  moment  while  he  said,  Do  not 
be  afraid  of  me  when  we  meet  again;  "  and  then  walked  away, 
and  paced  slowly  up  and  down  the  deck  until  passengers  for 
Oatskill  were  summoned  to  dinner,  when  he,  as  well  as  Dr 
e'er-^my  and  Gertrude,  went  below. 

The  doctor  tried  to  rally  Gertrude  a  little  about  her  gray- 
headed  beau,  declaring  that  he  was  yet  young  and  handsome,  and 
that  she  could  have  his  hair  dyed  any  color  she  pleased.  But  he 
could  not  succeed  in  annoying  her  in  that  way,  for  her  interest  in 
him,  which  she  did  not  deny,  was  quite  independent  of  his  per- 
sonal appearance. 

The  bustle,  however,  of  dinner,  and  going  on  shore  at  Oatskill, 
banished  from  the  good  doctor's  head  all  thought  of  everything 
except  the  safety  of  himself,  his  ladies,  and  their  baggage ;  fit 
cause,  indeed,  for  anxiety  to  a  more  experienced  traveller  than 
he.  For,  so  short  was  the  time  allotted  for  the  boat  to  stop  at 
the  landing  and  deposit  the  passengers,  and  such  was  the  confu- 
sion attending  the  operation  of  pushing  them  on  shore  and  fling- 
ing their  baggage  after  them,  that  when  the  panting  engine  was 
again  set  in  motion  the  little  crowd  collected  on  the  wharf  re- 
sembled rather  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep  than  human  beings 
with  a  free  will  of  their  own. 

Emily,  whose  nervous  system  was  somewhat  disordered,  clung 
trenjblingly  to  Gertrude ;  and  Gertrude  found  herself,  she  knew 
not  how,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Phillips,  to  whose  silent 
exertions  they  were  both  indebted  for  their  safety  in  disembark- 
uig.  Mrs.  Jeremy,  in  the  mean  time,  was  counting  up  the 
trunks,  while  her  husband,  with  his  foot  upon  one  of  them,  and 
a  carpet-bag  in  his  left  hand,  was  loudly  denouncing  the  steam- 
boat, its  conductors,  and  the  whole  hurrying,  skurrying  Yankee 
nation. 

Two  stage-coaches  were  waiting  at  the  wharf  to  take  passen- 
gers up  the  mountain,  and  before  Dr.  Jeremy  had  turned  hia 
back  upon  the  river  Emily  and  Gertrude  were  placed  in  one  of 
29 


33S 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


them  by  Mr.  Phillips,  who,  without  asking  questions,  or  eren 
speaking  at  all,  took  this  office  upon  himself,  and  then  went  to 
inform  the  doctor  of  their  whereabouts.  The  doctor  and  his  wife 
soon  joined  them;  a  party  of  strangers  occupied  the  other  seats 
in  the  coach,  and,  after  some  de Jiy,  they  commenced  the  sftei  uoon'a 
driver 


CHAPTiSa  xxxvs. 


Bolieve  in  God  as  in  the  sun,  —  and,  lo  ? 
Along  thy  soul  morn's  youth  restored  shall  glo^  i 
As  rests  the  earth,  so  rest,  0,  troubled  heart. 
Rest,  till  the  burden  of  the  cloud  depart ! 

New  Timow. 

Before  they  had  passed  through  the  dusty  village,  and  gained 
the  road  leading  in  the  direction  of  the  Mountain  House,  they 
became  painfully  conscious  of  the  vast  difference  between  the 
temperature  of  the  river  and  that  of  the  inland  country,  and,  in 
being  suddenly  deprived  of  the  refreshing  breeze  they  had  enjoyed 
on  board  the  boat,  they  fully  realized  the  extreme  heat  of  the 
weather.  For  the  first  few  miles  Gertrude's  whole  attention  was 
required  to  shield  Emily  and  herself  from  the  rays  of  a  burning 
sun  which  shone  into  the  coach  full  upon  their  faces,  and  it  was 
a  great  relief  when  they  at  last  reached  the  steep  but  smooth 
and  beautifully-shaded  road  which  led  up  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

The  atmosphere  being  perfectly  clear,  the  gradually  widening 
prospect  was  most  beautiful,  and  Gertrude's  delight  and  rapture 
were  such  that  the  restraint  imposed  by  stage-coach  decorum  was 
almost  insupportable.  When,  therefore,  the  ascent  became  so  labo- 
rious that  the  gentlemen  were  invited  to  alight,  and  relieve  the 
weary  horses  of  a  part  of  their  burden,  Gertrude  gladly  accepted 
Dr.  Jeremy's  proposal  that  she  saould  accompany  him  on  a  walk 
of  a  mile  or  two. 

Gertrude  was  an  excellent  walker,  and  she  and  the  still  active 
doctor  soon  left  the  coaches  far  behind  them.  At  a  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  they  stopped  to  view  the  scene  below,  and,  lost  in 
silent  admiration,  stood  enjoying  the  stillness  and  beauty  of  th^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


rpot,  wflcn  tb  y  wer:  startled  by  a  voice  close  beside  tliem  saying 
"  A  fine  landscape,  :ertainlj  !  " 

They  looked  around,  and  saw  Mr.  Phillips  seated  upon  a  moss, 
grown  rock,  against  which  Gertrude  was  at  the  moment  leaning, 
Ilis  attitude  was  easy  and  carele.'S,  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat 
lay  on  the  ground,  where  it  had  fallen,  and  his  snow-besprinkled 
but  wavy  and  still  beautiful  hair  was  tossed  back  from  his  high 
and  expanded  forehead.  One  wua'ia  have  ihuaght,to  look  at  him, 
leaning  so  idly  and  even  boyishly  upon  his  hand,  that  he  had  been 
sitting  there  for  hours  at  least,  and  felt  quite  at  home  in  the  place. 
He  rose  to  his  feet,  however,  immediately  upon  being  pcrceivea 
and  joined  Dr.  Jeremy  and  Gertrude. 

"  You  have  got  the  start  of  us,  sir,"  said  the  former. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  walked  from  the  village,  —  my  practice  always 
when  the  roads  are  such  that  no  time  can  be  gained  by  riding.'* 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  in  Gertrude's  hand,  without  looking  at 
her,  or  seeming  conscious  what  he  was  doing,  a  bouquet  of  rich 
laurel-blossoms,  which  he  had  probably  gathered  during  Lis  walk. 
She  would  have  thanked  him,  but  his  absent  manner  was  such  that 
it  afforded  her  no  opportunity,  especially  as  he  went  on  talking 
with  the  doctor,  as  if  she  had  not  been  present. 

All  three  resumed  their  walk.  Mr.  Phillips  and  Dr.  Jeremy 
^•onversed  in  an  animated  manner,  and  Gertrude,  content  to  be  a 
istencr,  soon  perceived  that  she  was  not  the  only  person  to  whom 
the  stranger  had  power  to  render  him.self  agreeable.  Dr.  Jeremy 
engaged  him  upon  a  variety  of  subjects,  upon  all  of  which  he  ap- 
peared equally  well-informed  ;  and  Gertrude  smiled  to  see  her  old 
friend  more  than  once  rub  his  hands  together,  according  to  his 
well-known  manner  of  expressing  boundless  satisfaction. 

Now,  Gertrude  thought  their  new  acquaintance  must  be  a  bot- 
anist by  profession,  so  versed  was  he  in  everything  relatin^^  to 
that  department  of  science.  Then,  again,  she  was  equally  sure 
that  geology  must  have  been  with  him  an  absorbing  study,  so  in- 
timate seemed  his  acquaintance  with  mother  earth;  and  both  of 
these  impressions  were  in  turn  dispelled,  when  he  talked  of  the 
ocean  like  a  sailor,  of  the  cc  inting-room  like  a  merchant,  of 
Paris  like  a  Lian  of  fashion  anc  the  world. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


tn  tli3  meau  time,  she  walked  beside  him,  silent  but  lot  forgot* 
ten  or  unnoticed ;  for,  as  they  approached  a  rough  and  steep 
ascent,  he  offered  his  arm,  and  expressed  a  fear  lest  she  should 
become  fatigued.  She  assured  him  there  was  no  danger  of  that. 
Dr.  Jeremy  declared  it  his  belief  that  Gerty  could  out-walk  them 
both  ;  and,  thus  satisfied,  Mr.  Phillips  resumed  the  broken  thread 
of  their  discourse,  into  which,  before  long,  Gertrude  was  drawn, 
almost  unawares. 

Mr.  Phillips  was  a  man  who  knew  how  to  inspire  a»ve,  and 
even  fear,  when  such  was  his  pleasure.  The  reverse  being  the 
case,  however,  he  had  equal  ability  to  dispel  such  sentim.ents, 
awaken  confidence,  and  bid  character  unfold  itself  at  his  bidding. 
He  \o  lono^er  seemed  in  Gertrude's  eyes  a  .stranger;  —  he  was  a 
nystery,  certainly,  but  not  a  forbidding  one.  She  longed  to 
aUow  more  of  him ;  to  learn  the  history  of  a  life  which  many  an 
incident  of  his  own  narrating  proved  to  have  been  made  up  of 
strange  and  mingled  experience ;  especially  did  her  sympathetic 
nature  desire  to  fathom  the  cause  of  that  deep-seated  melancholy 
which  shadowed  and  darkened  his  noble  countenance,  and  made 
his  very  smile  a  sorrowful  thing. 

Dr.  Jeremy,  who,  in  a  degree,  shared  her  curiosity,  asked  a  few 
leading  questions,  in  hopes  to  obtain  some  clue  to  his  new  friend's 
personal  history ;  but  in  vain.  Mr.  Phillips'  lips  were  either 
sealed  on  the  subject,  or  opened  only  to  baffle  the  curiosity  of  hia 
interrogator. 

At  length  the  doctor  was  compelled  to  give  way  to  a  weariness 
which  he  could  no  longer  disguise  from  himself  or  his  companions, 
much  as  he  disliked  to  acknowledge  the  fact ;  and,  seating  them- 
selves by  the  road-side,  they  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  coach. 

There  had  been  a  short  silence,  when  the  doctor,  looking  at 
Gertrude,  remarked,  "  There  will  be  no  church  for  us  to-mcrrow 
Gerty." 

"  No  church  !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  gazing  about  her  with  a 
look  of  reverence ;  "  how  ca?i  you  say  so  ?  " 

Mr.  i'hillips  bestowed  upon  her  a  smile  ijf  interest  and  inquiry 
Rnd  said,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "  There  is  no  Sunday  here,  Miss 
Flint    it  do^s  n't  come  up  so  high. 
29^ 


B42 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Ho  spoke  lightly,  —  too  lightly,  Gertrude  thought,  —  and  s^6 
replied  with  some  seriousness,  and  much  sweetness,  "  I  have  oftm 
rejoiced  that  the  Sabbath  had  been  sent  down  into  the  loiver  earth  ; 
the  higher  W3  go,  the  nearer  we  come,  I  trust,  to  the  eternal  Salh 
bath." 

Mr.  Phillips  bit  his  lip,  and  turned  away  without  replying 
There  was  9.n  expression  about  his  mouth  which  Gertrude  did  not 
exactly  like  ;  but  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  reproach  him 
for  th3  slight  sneer  which  his  manner,  rather  than  his  look,  im- 
plied,  for,  as  he  gazed  a  moment  or  two  into  vacpucy,  there  was 
in  his  wild  and  absent  countenance  such  a  boii;:  sorrow,  that 
she  could  only  pity  and  wonder.  The  errii'lLCs  now  came  up,  and, 
as  he  placed  her  in  her  former  seat,  h  idsumed  his  wonted  serene 
and  kindly  expression,  and  she  felt  convinced  that  it  was  only 
doing  justice  to  his  frank  and  open  face  to  believe  that  nothing 
was  hid  behind  it  that  would  not  do  honor  to  the  man. 

An  hour  more  brought  them  to  the  Mountain  House,  and, 
greatly  to  their  joy,  they  were  at  once  shown  to  some  of  the  most 
excellent  rooms  the  hotel  afforded.  As  Gertrude  stood  at  the 
window  of  the  chamber  allotted  to  herself  and  Emily,  and  heard  the 
loud  murmurs  of  some  of  her  fellow-travellers  who  were  denied 
any  tolerable  accommodation,  she  could  not  but  be  astonished  at 
Dr.  Jeremy's  unusual  good  fortune  in  being  treated  with  such 
mai-ked  partiality. 

Emily,  being  greatly  fatigued  with  the  toilsomo  journey,  had 
supper  brought  to  her  own  room,  and  Gertrude  partaking  of  it 
with  her,  neither  of  them  sought  other  society  that  night,  but  at 
early  hour  betook  themselves  to  rest. 

The  last  thing  that  Gertrude  heard,  before  flilling  asleep,  was 
the  voice  of  Dr.  Jeremy,  saying,  as  he  passed  their  door,  Take 
care,  Gerty,  and  be  up  in  time  to  see  the  sun  rise." 

She  was  not  up  in  time,  however,  nor  was  the  doctor  himself; 
neither  of  them  had  calculated  upon  the  sun's  being  such  an  early 
riser;  and  though  Gertrude,  mindful  of  the  caution,  sprung  up 
almost  before  her  eyes  were  open,  a  flood  of  daylight  was  pouring 
in  at  t\ie  window,  and  a  scene  met  her  gaze  which  at  once  put 
aight  every  regret  a^*  having  overslept  herself,  since  nothing,  ohe 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


343 


thouglit,  could  be  va  )ve  solemnly  glorious  than  that  which  now 
lay  outspread  before  her. 

From  the  surface  of  the  rocky  platform  upon  which  the  house 
was  built,  far  out  to  the  distant  horizon,  nothing  was  to  be  seen 
but  a  sea  of  snowy  clouds,  which  wholly  overshadowed  the  lower 
earth,  and  hid  it  from  view.  Y ast,  solid,  and  of  the  most  perfect 
whiteness,  they  stretched  on  every  side,  forming,  as  they  lay  in 
thick  masses,  between  which  not  a  crevice  was  discernible,  an 
unbroken  curtain,  dividing  the  heavens  from  the  earth. 

While  most  of  the  world,  however,  was  thus  shut  out  from  the 
clear  light  of  morning,  the  mountain-top  was  rejoicing  in  an  un- 
usually brilliant  and  glorious  dawn,  the  beauty  of  which  was 
greatly  enhanced  by  those  very  clouds  which  were  obscuring  and 
shadowing  the  dwellings  of  men  below.  A  fairy  bark  might  have 
iBioated  upon  the  undulating  waves  which  glistened  in  the  sun- 
shine like  new-fallen  snow,  and  which,  contrasted  with  the  clear 
blue  sky  above,  formed  a  picture  of  singular  grandeur.  The 
foliage  of  the  oaks,  the  pines  and  the  m.aples,  which  had  found 
root  in  this  lofty  region,  was  rich,  clear  and  polished,  and  tame 
and  fearless  birds  of  various  note  were  singing  in  the  branches 
Gertrude  gave  one  long  look,  then  hastened  to  dress  herself  and 
go  out  upon  the  platform.  The  house  was  perfectly  still ;  no  one 
seemed  yet  to  be  stirring,  and  she  stood  for  some  time  entrancec^ 
almost  breathless,  with  awe  and  admiration. 

At  length  she  heard  footsteps,  and,  looking  up,  saw  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Jeremy  approaching ;  the  former,  as  usual,  full  of  life,  and 
dragging  forward  his  reluctant,  sleepy  partner,  whose  countenance 
proclaimed  how  unwillingly  she  had  foregone  her  morning  nap. 
The  doctor  rubbed  his  hands  as  they  joined  Gertrude.  "  Very  fine 
this.;  Gerty  !  A  touch  beyond  anything  I  had  calculated  upon." 

Gertrude  turned  upon  him  her  beaming  eyes,  but  did  not 
speak.  Satisfied,  however,  with  the  expression  of  her  face,  which 
^as  sufficient,  without  words,  to  indicate  her  appreciation  of  the 
iicene,  the  doctor  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  flat  rock  upon  which 
they  stood,  placed  his  hands  beneath  his  coat-tails,  and  indulged 
\n  a  soliloquy,  made  up  of  short  excla  nations  and  interjeotioiial 


B44 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


phrases,  expressi  :e  of  his  approbation,  still  further  confirmed  and 
emphasized  by  a  quick,  regular  nodding  of  his  head. 

Why,  this  looks  queer,  does  n't  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  rub- 
bing her  eyes,  and  gazing  about  her ;  "  but  I  dare  say  it  would 
be  just  so  an  hour  or  two  hence.  I  don't  see  what  the  doctor 
would  make  me  get  up  so  early  for."  Then,  catching  sight  of 
her  husband's  position,  she  darted  forward,  exclaiming,  Dr. 
Terry,  for  mercy's  sake,  don't  stand  so  near  the  edge  of  that 
precipice !  Why,  are  you  crazy,  man  ?  You  frighten  me  to 
death  !  you  '11  fall  over  and  break  your  neck,  as  sure  as  the  world  !  '* 

Finding  the  doctor  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  she  caught  hold  of 
his  coat,  and  tried  to  drag  him  backwards;  upon  which  he  turned 
about,  inquired  what  was  the  matter,  and,  perceiving  her  anxiety, 
considerately  retreated  a  few  paces ;  the  next  moment,  however, 
he  was  once  more  in  the  same  precarious  spot.  The  same  scene 
was  reenacted,  and  finally,  after  the  poor  woman's  fears  had  been 
excited  and  relieved  half  a  dozen  times  in  succession,  she  grew 
so  disturbed,  that,  looking  most  imploringly  at  Gertrude,  she 
begged  her  to  get  the  doctor  away  from  that  dangerous  place,  for 
the  poor  man  was  so  venturesome  he  would  surely  be  killed. 

"  Suppose  we  explore  that  little  path  at  the  right  of  the  house,' 
suggested  Gertrude  ;  "it  looks  attractive." 

"So  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy;  "beautiful  little  shady  path! 
Come,  doctor,  Gerty  and  I  are  going  to  walk  up  here,  —  come." 

The  doctor  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  she  pointed. 
♦  Ah !  "  said  he,  "  that  is  the  path  the  man  at  the  office  spoke 
about ;  it  leads  up  to  the  pine  gardens.  We  '11  climb  up,  by  all 
(Qeans,  and  see  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is." 

Gertrude  led  the  way,  Mrs.  Jeremy  followed,  and  the  doctoi 
trought  up  the  rear, —  all  walking  in  single  file,  for  the  path  was  a 
mere  foot-track.  The  ascent  was  very  steep,  and  they  had  not 
proceeded  far  before  Mrs.  Jeremy,  panting  with  heat  andflitigue, 
stopped  short,  and  declared  her  inability  to  reach  the  top ;  she 
would  not  have  thought  of  coming,  if  she  had  known  what  a  hor- 
rid hard  hill  she  had  got  to  climb.  Encouraged  and  assisted, 
however,  by  her  husband  and  Gertrude,  she  was  induced  to  make 
A  further  attempt ;  and  they  had  gone  on  some  distance  whei 


THE  LuiUPLIGHTER. 


Gartrude.who  happened  for  a  moment  to  be  some  steps  in  advance, 
heard  M/s.  Jeremy  give  a  slight  scream.  She  looked  back, 
the  doctor  was  laughing  heartily,  but  his  wife,  who  was  the  pic 
turc  of  consternation,  was  endeavoring  to  pass  him  and  retrace 
her  steps  down  the  hill,  at  the  same  time  calling  upon  her  to 
follow. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Gertrude. 

"  Matter  !"  cried  Mrs.  Jeremy;  "  why,  this  hill  is  covered  with 
rattlesnakes,  and  here  we  are  all  going  up  to  be  bitten  to  death  !  " 

"  No  such  thing,  Gerty  !  "  said  the  doctor,  still  laughing.  "  I 
only  told  her  there  had  been  one  killed  here  this  summer,  and 
now  she  's  making  it  an  excuse  for  turning  back." 

"  I  don't  care ! "  said  the  good-natured  lady,  half-laughing  her 
self,  in  spite  of  her  fears;  "if  there's  been  one,  there  may  b 
another,  and  I  won't  stay  here  a  minute  longer  !  I  thought  it  wa& 
a  bad  enough  place  before,  and  tiow  I 'm  going  down  faster  than 
I  came  up.'* 

Finding  her  determined,  the  doctor  hastened  to  accompany  her, 
calling  to  Gertrude  as  he  went,  however,  assuring  her  there  was 
no  danger,  and  begging  her  to  keep  on  and  wait  for  him  at  the 
top  of  the  hill,  where  he  would  join  her  after  he  had  left  his  wife 
in  safety  at  the  hotel.  Gertrude,  therefore,  went  on  alone.  For 
the  first  few  rods  she  looked  carefully  about  her,  and  thought  of 
rattlesnakes ;  but  the  path  was  so  well  worn  that  she  felt  sure  it 
must  be  often  trod  and  was  probably  safe,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
place  soon  engrossed  all  her  attention.  After  a  few  moments  spent 
in  active  climbing,  she  reached  the  highest  point  of  ground,  and 
found  herself  once  more  on  an  elevated  woody  platform,  from  which 
she  could  look  forth  as  before  upon  the  unbroken  sea  of  clouds. 

She  seated  herself  at  the  root  of  an  immense  pine-tree,  rb^noYed 
her  bonnet,  for  she  was  warm  from  recent  exercise,  and,  as  she 
inhaled  the  refreshing  mountain  breeze,  gave  herself  up  to  the 
'irain  of  reflection  which  she  had  been  indulging  when  disturbed 
by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

She  had  sat  thus  but  a  moment  when  a  slight  rustling  noise 
startled  her ;  she  remembered  the  rattlesnakes,  and  was  springing 
to  her  feet,  but,  hearing  a  low  sound,  as  of  some  one  breathing 


846 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


turned  her  ojes  in  tHe  direction  from  which  it  came,  and  saw, 
only  a  few  yards  from  her,  the  figure  of  a  man  stretched  upon  the 
ground,  apparently  asleep.  She  went  towards  it  with  a  careful 
step,  and  before  she  could  see  the  face  the  large  straw  hat,  and 
'he  long,  blanched,  wavy  hair,  betrayed  the  identity  of  the  in- 
iividual.  Mr.  Phillips  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  sleeping;  his 
head  was  pillowed  upon  his  arm,  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  his 
attitude  denoted  perfect  repose.  Gertrude  stood  still  and  locked 
at  him.  As  she  did  so,  his  countenance  suddenly  changed  ;  the 
peaceful  expression  gave  place  to  the  same  unhappy  look  which 
had  at  first  excit-^.d  her  sympathy.  His  lips  moved,  and  in  his 
dreams  he  spoke,  or  rather  shouted,  "  No  !  no  !  no  !  "  each  time 
that  he  repeated  the  word  pronouncing  it  with,  more  vehemence 
and  emphasis;  then,  wildly  throwing  one  arm  above  his  head,  he 
let  it  fall  gradually  and  heavily  upon  the  ground,  and,  the  excite* 
ment  subsiding  from  his  face,  he  uttered  the  simple  words,  "  O, 
dear ! "  much  as  a  grieved  and  tired  child  might  do,  as  he  lears 
his  head  upon  his  mother's  knee. 

Gertrude  was  deeply  touched.  She  forgot  that  he  was  a 
Btranger ;  she  saw  only  a  sufferer.  An  insect  lit  upon  his  fair, 
open  forehead ;  she  leaned  over  him,  brushed  away  the  greedy 
creature,  and,  as  she  did  so,  one  of  the  many  tears  that  filled  her 
eyes  fell  upon  his  cheek. 

Quietly,  then,  without  motion  or  warning,  he  awoke,  and  looked 
full  in  the  face  of  the  embarrassed  girl,  who  started,  and  would 
have  hastened  away,  but,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  caught  her 
hand  and  detained  her.  He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  without 
speaking ;  then  said,  in  a  grave  voice,  "  My  child,  did  you  shed 
that  tear  for  me  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  except  by  her  eyes,  which  were  still  glisten- 
tug  with  ihe  dew  of  sympathy. 

^  I  believe  you  did,'^  said  he,  and  from  my  heart  I  b'.ess  you! 
Sut  never  again  weep  for  a  stranger  ;  you  will  have  woes  enough 
of  your  0"\\n,  if  you  live  to  be  of  my  age." 

If  I  had  no:  had  sorrows  alieady,"  sxid  Gertrude,  "  I  should 
not  know  how  to  feel  for  others ;  if  I  had  not  often  wept  for  mj«' 
wlf,  I  ahould  not  weep  now  for  you." 


THE  LAMPLIGHT£E 


Bui  yon  are  happy  ?  " 
«  iTes." 

"  Some  find  it  easy  to  forget  the  past." 
"  /  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"  Children's  griefs  are  triHes,  and  you  are  still  scarce  E»ora 
than  a  child." 

**  I  never  was  a  child,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Strange  girl !  "  soliloquized  her  companion.    "  Will  you  sil 
down  and  talk  with  me  a  few  minutes  ?  " 
Gertrude  hesitated. 

"  Do  not  refuse  ;  I  am  an  old  man,  and  very  harmless.  Take 
a  seat  here  under  this  tree,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  cf  the 
prospect." 

Gertrude  smiled  inwardly  at  the  idea  of  his  being  such  an  old 
man,  and  calling  her  a  child  ;  but,  old  or  young,  she  had  it  not  in 
her  heart  to  fear  him,  or  refuse  his  request.  She  sat  down,  and  he 
seated  himself  beside  her,  but  did  not  speak  of  the  prospect,  or 
of  anything,  for  a  moment  or  two;  then  turning  to  her  abruptly, 
he  said,    So  you  never  were  unhappy  in  your  life  ?  " 

**  Never  !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude.     0,  yes;  often." 

"  But  never  long  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can  remember  whole  years  when  happiness  was  a 
thing  J  had  never  even  dreamed  of." 

"  But  comfort  came  at  last.  What  do  you  think  of  those  to 
whom  it  never  comes  ?  " 

"  I  know  enough  of  sorrow  to  pity  and  wish  to  help  them." 

"  What  can  you  do  for  them  ?  " 

"  Hope  for  them,  pray  for  them  !  "  said  Gertrude,  with  a  voice 
lull  of  feeling. 

"What  if  they  be  past  hcpe? — beyond  the  influence  of 
^irayer  ?  " 

"  There  are  no  such,"  said  Gertrude,  with  decision. 

"  Do  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Phillips,  "  this  curtain  of  thick  clouds, 
now  overshadowing  the  world  ?  Even  so  many  a  heart  is  weighed 
down  and  overshadowed  by  thick  and  impenetrable  darkness™" 

"But  the  light  shines  brightly  above  the  cl ouds, "  said  Gar- 
irude. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


*  Above!  well,  that  may  bo;  but  what  avails  it  to  those  wha 
BC-e  it  not  ?  " 

It  is  sometimes  a  weary  and  toilsome  road  that  leads  to  the 
mountain-top  ;  but  the  pilgrim  is  well  repaid  for  the  trouble  which 
brings  him  above  the  claiids^^^  replied  Gertrude,  with  enthusiasm. 

Few  ever  find  the  road  that  leads  so  high,"  responded  hei 
melancholy  companion ;  "  and  those  who  do  cannot  live  long  in 
BO  elevated  an  atmosphere.  They  must  come  down  from  theii 
height,  and  again  dwell  among  the  common  herd ;  again  mingle 
in  the  warfare  with  the  mean,  the  base  and  the  cruel ;  thick'^.r 
clouds  will  gather  over  their  heads,  and  they  will  be  buried  in 
redoubled  darkness." 

"  But  thv^y  have  seen  the  glory  ;  they  know  that  the  light  is 
ijver  burning  on  high,  and  will  have  faith  to  believe  it  will  pierce 
the  gloom  at  last.  See,  see !  "  said  she,  her  eyes  glowing  with 
<;he  fervor  with  which  she  spoke,  —  "  even  now  the  heaviest  clouds 
are  parting ;  the  sun  will  soon  light  up  the  valley  !  " 

She  pointed,  as  she  spoke,  to  a  wide  fissure  which  was  gradually 
disclosing  itself,  as  the  hitherto  solid  mass  of  clouds  separated  on 
cither  side,  and  then  turned  to  the  stranger  to  see  if  he  observed 
the  change  ;  but,  with  the  same  smile  upon  his  unmoved  counte- 
nance, he  was  watching,  not  the  display  of  nature  in  the  distance, 
but  that  close  at  his  side.  He  was  gazing  with  intense  interest 
upon  the  young  and  ardent  worshipper  of  the  beautiful  and  the 
true;  and,  in  studying  her  features  ar.d  observing  the  play  of 
'her  countenance,  he  seemed  so  wholly  absorbed,  that  Gertrude  — 
believing  he  was  not  listening  to  her  words,  but  had  fallen  into 
one  of.  his  absent  moods  —  ceased  speaking,  rather  abruptly,  and 
was  turning  away,  when  he  said, 

"  Go  on,  happy  child !  Teach  me^  if  you  can,  to  see  the  world 
tinged  with  the  rosy  coloring  it  wears  for  yoi^  ;  teach  mc  to  lovo 
and  pity,  as  you  do,  that  miserable  thing  called  man,  I  warn 
you  that  you  have  a  difficult  task,  but  you  seem  to  be  very  hope- 
ful.^' 

"  Do  you  hate  the  world  ?  "  asked  Gertrude,  with  r'tra ight-fo]> 
ward  simplicity. 

"  Almost,"  was  Mr.  Phillips'  answer. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


84^ 


i  did  «wr/',"  said  Gertrude,  musingly, 
"And  will  again,  perhaps,'* 

"  No,  that  ^YOuld  be  impossible ;  it  has  been  a  good  foster  * 
mother  to  its  orphan  child,  and  now  1  love  it  dearly." 

"  Have  they  been  kind  to  you  ? "  asked  he,  with  eagerness„ 
Have  heartless  strangers  deserved  the  love  you  seem  to  feel  for 
t  hem  ? " 

"  Heartless  strangers  !  "  exclaimed  Grertrude,  the  tears  rushing 
to  her  eyes.  "  0  sir,  I  wish  you  could  have  known  my  Uncle 
True,  and  Emily,  dear,  blind  Emily  !  You  would  think  better  of 
the  world,  for  their  sakes." 

"  Tell  me  about  them,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice,  and 
looking  fixedly  down  into  the  precipice  which  yawned  at  his  feet. 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell,  only  that  one  was  old  and  poor, 
and  the  other  wholly  blind ;  and  yet  they  made  everything  rich, 
and  bright,  and  beautiful,  to  me,  a  poor,  desolate,  injured  child. ' 

Injured !  Then  you  acknowledge  that  you  had  previously  met 
with  wrong  and  injustice  ?  " 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "  my  earliest  recollections  are  only 
of  want,  suffering,  and  much  unkindness." 

"  x\nd  these  friends  took  pity  on  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  One  became  an  earthly  father  to  me,  and  the  other 
taught  me  where  to  find  a  heavenly  one." 

*'  And  ever  since  then  you  have  been  free  and  light  as  air, 
without  a  wish  or  care  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  did  not  say  so, —-I  do  not  mean  so,"  said  Ger- 
trude. "  I  have  had  to  part  from  Uncle  True,  and  to  give  up 
olher  dear  friends,  some  for  years  and  some  forever ;  I  have  had 
many  trials,  many  lonely,  solitary  hours,  and  even  now  am 
oppressed  by  more  than  one  subject  of  anxiety  and  dread." 
How,  then,  so  cheerful  and  happy  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Phillipg. 

Gertrude  had  risen,  for  she  saw  Dr.  Je-remy  approaching,  and 
stood  with  one  hand  resting  upon  a  solid  mass  of  stone,  under 
whose  protecting  shadow  she  had  been  seated.  She  smiled  a 
thoughtfal  smile  at  Mr.  Phillips'  question ;  and  after  casting  her 
ey  es  a  moment  into  the  deep  valley  beneath  her,  turned  them 
upon  him  with  a  look  of  holy  faith,  and  said,  in  a  ow  but  fervenV 
30 


550 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


tone,  "I  see  the  gulf  yawning  beneath  me,  but  1  lean  upca  ihi 
Rock  of  ages  '' 

Gertrude  had  spoken  truly  when  she  said  that  more  than  one 
anxiety  and  dread  oppressed  her ;  for,  mingled  witli  a  daily 
increasing  fear  lest  the  time  was  fast  approaching  when  Emily 
would  be  taken  from  her,  she  had  of  late  been  harassed  and 
grieved  by  the  thought  that  Willie  Sullivan,  towaids  whom  her 
heart  yearned  with  more  than  a  sister's  love,  was  fast  forgetting 
the  friend  of  his  childhood,  or,  a!  least,  ceasing  to  regard  her 
with  the  love  and  tenderness  of  former  years.  It  was  now  some 
months  since  she  had  received  a  letter  from  India;  the  last  was 
short,  and  written  in  a  haste  which  AYillie  apologized  for  on  the 
scoi'e  of  business  cares  and  duties,  and  Gertrude  was  compelled 
unwillingly  to  admit  the  chilling  presentiment  that  now  that  his 
mother  and  grandfather  were  no  more  the  ties  which  bound  the 
exile  to  his  native  home  were  sensibly  weakened. 

Nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  hint,  even  to  Emily,  a  sus- 
picion of  neglect  on  Willie's  part ;  nothing  would  have  shocked 
her  more  than  hearing  such  neglect  imputed  to  him  by  another; 
but  still,  in  the  depths  of  her  own  heart,  she  sometimes  mused 
with  wonder  upon  his  long  silence,  and  the  strange  diminution  of 
intercourse  between  herself  and  him.  During  several  weeks  in 
which  she  had  received  no  tidings  she  had  still  continued  to 
write  as  usual,  and  felt  sure  that  such  reminders  must  have 
reached  him  by  every  mail.  What,  then,  but  illness  or  indiffer- 
ence could  excuse  his  never  replying  to  her  faithfully  despatched 
missives  ?  She  often  tried  to  banish  from  her  mind  any  self 
questioning  upon  a  subject  so  involved  in  uncertainty ;  but  at 
times  a  sadness  came  over  her  which  could  only  be  dispersed  by 
turning  her  thoughts  upward  with  that  trusting  faith  and  hope 
which  had  so  often  sustained  her  drooping  spirits,  and  it  was  from 
one  of  these  soaring  reveries  that  she  had  turned  with  pitying 
looks  and  words  to  the  felloW'«;ufferer  whose  moans  had  escaped 
him  even  in  his  dreams. 

Dr.  Jeremy's  approach  was  the  signal  for  hearty  congratula- 
tions and  good-mornings  between  himself  and  Mr.  Phillips  ;  the 
doctor  began  to  ccnverse  in  his  animated  manner,  spoke  with 


THE  LAMPLIQHTEK. 


351 


hearty  delight  of  the  beauty  and  peacefulness  of  that  briglit  Sab- 
bath morning  in  the  mountains;  and  Mr.  Phillips,  compelled  to 
exert  himself,  and  conceal,  if  he  could  not  dispel,  the  gloom  vvhich 
weighed  upon  his  mind,  talked  with  an  ease,  and  even  playfulness, 
which  astonished  Gertrude,  who  walked  back  to  the  hoiice  silently 
wondering:  at  this  strano!;e  and  inconsistent  man.  She  did  not  see 
him  at  breakfast,  and  at  dinner  he  took  a  seat  at  some  distance 
from  Dr.  Jeremy's  party,  and  merely  acknowledged  their  acquaint- 
ance by  a  graceful  salutation  to  Gertrude  as  she  left  the  dming- 
halL 

Still  latar  in  the  day,  he  suddenly  made  his  appearance  upon 
the  broad  piazza  where  Emily  and  Gertrude  were  seated  one 
pair  of  eyes  serving,  as  usual,  to  paint  pictures  for  the  minas  of 
both.  There  had  been  a  thunder-shower,  but,  as  the  sun  went 
down,  and  the  storm  passed  away,  a  brilliant  bow,  and  its  almost 
equally  brilliant  reflection,  spanned  the  horizon,  seemingly  far 
beneath  the  height  of  the  mountain-top,  and  the  lights  and 
shadows  which  were  playing  upon  the  valley  and  its  shining  river 
were  brilliant  and  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  Gertrude  hoped  Mr. 
Phillips  would  join  them ;  she  knew  that  Emily  would  be  charmed 
with  his  rich  and  varied  conversation,  and  felt  an  instinctive  hope 
that  the  sweet  tones  of  the  comfort-carrying  voice  which  so  many 
loved  and  blessed  would  speak  to  his  heart  a  lesson  of  peace. 
But  she  hoped  in  vain  ;  he  started  on  seeing  them,  walked  hastil;y 
away,  and  Gertrude  soon  after  espied  him  toiling  up  the  same 
steep  path  which  had  attracted  them  both  in  the  morning,  —  noi 
did  he  make  his  appearance  at  the  hotel  again  that  night. 

The  Jeremys  stayed  two  days  longer  at  the  Mountain  House ; 
the  invigorating  air  benefited  Emily,  who  appeared  stronger  than 
she  had  done  for  weeks  past,  and  was  ab.^^  to  take  many  a  little 
stroll  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house. 

Gertrude  was  never  weary  of  the  glorious  prospect,  upon  which 
she  gazed  with  ever  increasing  delight ;  and  an  excursion  which 
she  and  the  doctor  made  on  foot  to  the  cleft  in  the  heart  of  the 
^nountain,  where  a  narrow  stream  leaps  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
feet  into  the  valley  below,  furnished  the  theme  for  many  a 
descriptive  r every,  of  which  Emily  reaped  a  part  of  the  enjoj^- 


352 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


ment.  They  sa\v  n  more  of  their  new  acquaintance,  who  had 
disappeared  without  their  knowledge.  Dr.  Jeremy  inquired  of 
their  host  concerning  him,  and  learned  that  he  left  at  an  early 
hour  on  Monday,  and  took  up  a  pedestrian  course  down  the 
mountain. 

The  doctor  was  surprised  and  disappointed,  for  he  liked  Mr. 
Phillips  exceedingly,  and  had  flattered  himself,  from  some  par- 
ticular inquiries  he  had  made  concerning  their  proposed  route, 
taat  he  had  an  idea  of  attaching  himself  to  their  party. 

Never  mind,  Grerty,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  mock  condolence. 
'  I  daresay  we  shall  come  across  him  yet,  some  time  whcQ  we 
lofist  expect  it ' 


CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

Led  by  simplicity  divine, 

She  pleased,  and  never  tried  to  sMne. 

Hannah  MoiB. 

From  CatSLdll  Dr.  Jeremy  proceeded  directly  to  Saratoga, 
The  place  was  crowded  with  visitors,  for  the  season  was  at  its 
height,  and  the  improvident  traveller  having  neglected  to  secure 
rooms,  they  had  no  right  to  expect  any  accommodation. 

"  Where  do  you  propose  stopping  ?  "  inquired  an  acquaintance 
of  the  doctor's,  whom  they  accidentally  encountered  in  the  cars. 

"  At  Congress  Hall,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  will  be  a  quiet 
place  for  us  old  folks,  and  more  agreeable  than  any  other  hous^* 
to  Miss  Graham,  who  is  an  invalid." 

"  You  are  expected,  I  conclude  ?  " 

"  Expected  ?  —  No ;  who  should  be  expecting  us  ?  " 

"  Your  landlord.  If  you  have  not  engaged  rooms  you  will 
fare  badly,  for  every  hotel  is  crowded  to  overflowing." 

"  We  must  take  our  chance,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an 
indifference  of  manner  which  wholly  forsook  him  upon  his 
fairly  arriving  at  his  destination,  and  learning  that  his  friend's 
words  were  true. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  are  going  to  do,"  said  he,  as  he  joined 
the  ladies,  whom  he  had  left  for  a  few  moments  while  he  made 
inquiries ;  they  say  every  house  is  full ;  and,  if  so,  we 'd  better 
take  the  next  train  of  cars  and  be  off,  for  we  can't  sleep  in  the 
street.'* 

"  Carriage,  sir?"  shouted  a  hackman,  leaning  over  a  railing  a 
few  steps  distant,  and  beckoning  to  the  doctor  with  all  his  might, 
while  another  and  still  bolder  aspirant  for  employment  tapped  hk 
30^ 


854 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


shoulder,  and  made  a  similar  suggestion,  in  x  most  in^iinuating 
tone  of  voice. 

Carriage  ^  "  repeated  the  doctor,  angrily.  "  What  for  ?  where 
W3uld  you  carry  us,  for  mercy's  sake  ?  There  is  n't  a  garret  to 
be  had  in  your  town,  for  love  or  money.'* 

*•  Well  sir,"  said  the  la«it-mentioned  petitioner  (a  sort  of  omni- 
bus attache,  taking  off  his  cap  as  he  spoke,  and  wiping  his  fore- 
head with  a  torn  and  soiled  pocket-handkerchief),  "the  houses  is 
pretty  considerable  full  just  now,  to  be  sure,  but  may-be  you  can 
get  colonized  out." 

"  Colonized  out?  "  said  the  doctor,  still  in  a  tone  of  extreme 
vexation.  "  That 's  what  I  think  we  are  already ;  what  I  want  is 
to  get  in  somewhere.  Where  do  you  usually  drive  your  coach  ? " 
To  Congress  Hall." 

"  Drive  up,  then,  and  let  us  get  in ;  and,  mind,  if  they  don't 
take  us  at  Congress  Hall,  we  shall  expect  you  to  keep  us  until 
we  find  better  accommodations." 

Mrs.  J eremy,  Emily  and  Gertrude,  were  consequently  assisted 
into  a  small  omnibus,  and  closely  packed  away  among  half  a 
dozen  ladies  and  children,  who,  tired,  dusty  and  anxious,  were 
schooling  themselves  to  patience,  or  encouraging  themselves  with 
hope.  The  doctor  took  a  seat  upon  the  outside,  and  the  moment 
the  vehicle  stopped  hastened  to  present  himself  to  the  landlord. 
As  he  had  anticipated,  there  was  not  a  vacant  corner  in  the 
house.  Wishing  to  accommodate  him,  however,  the  office-keeper 
announced  the  possibility  that  he  might  be  able  before  night  to 
furnish  him  with  one  room  in  a  house  in  the  next  street. 

"  One  room !  in  the  next  street !  "  cried  the  doctor.  "  Ah, 
that 's  being  colonized  out,  is  it  ?  Well,  sir,  it  won't  do  for  me ; 
I  must  have  a  place  to  put  my  ladies  in  at  once.  Why  in  con- 
Bcience  don't  you  have  hotels  enough  for  your  visitors  ? " 

"  It  is  the  height  of  the  season,  sir,  and  — " 

"  Why,  Dr.  Jeremy  !  "  exclaimed  the  youthful  voice  of  Netta 
Gryseworth,  who  was  passing  through  the  hall  with  her  grand- 
mother, "  how  do  you  do,  sir  ?  Are  Miss  Graham  and  Miss  Fiini 
with  you  ?    Have  you  come  to  stay  ?  " 

Before  the  doctor  could  answer  her  questions,  and  pay  brg 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


355 


respects  to  Madam  Gryscwth,  a  venerable  old  lady,  whom  he 
had  ku)wn  thirty  years  before,  the  landlord  of  the  hotel  accosted 
him. 

*'  Dr.  Jeremy  ? "  said  he.  "  Excuse  me,  I  did  not  know  you. 
Dr.  Jeremy,  of  Boston  ? " 

The  game,"  said  the  doctor,  bowing. 

Ah  !.  we  are  all  right,  then.  Your  rooms  are  reserved,  and 
will  b3  made  ready  in  a  few  minutes ;  they  were  vacated  two 
daj^s  ago,  and  have  not  been  occupied  since." 

What  is  all  this  ?  "  exclaimed  the  honest  doctor.  "  I  engaged 
no  rooms." 

"  A  friend  did  it  for  you,  then,  sir  ;  a  fortunate  circumstance, 
especially  as  you  have  ladies  with  you.  Saratoga  is  very  crowded 
at  this  season  ;  there  were  seven  thousand  strangers  in  the  town 
yesterday." 

The  doctor  thanked  his  stars  and  his  unknown  friend,  and 
summoned  the  ladies  to  enjoy  their  good  fortune. 

**Why,  now,  an't  we  lucky?"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  as  she 
glanced  round  the  comfortable  room  allotted  to  herself,  and  then, 
crossing  the  narrow  entry,  took  a  similar  survey  of  Emily's  and 
Gertrude's  apartment.  "  After  all  the  talk  everybody  made,  too, 
about  the  crowd  of  folks  there  were  here  scrambling  for  places  I  " 
The  doctor,  who  had  just  come  up  stairs,  having  waited  to 
give  directions  concerning  his  baggage,  approached  the  door  in  ■ 
time  to  hear  his  wife's  last  remark,  and  entering  with  his  finger 
upon  his  lip,  and  a  mock  air  of  mystery,  exclaimed,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Hash !  hush !  don't  say  too  much  about  it !  We  are 
profiting  by  a  glorious  mistake  on  the  part  of  our  good  landlord. 
These  rooms  were  engaged  for  somebody,  that 's  certain,  but  not 
for  us.  However,  they  can't  do  more  than  turn  us  out  when  tno 
right  folks  come,  anri  until  then  we  have  a  prospect,  I  see,  of 
very  good  lodgings." 

But,  if  the  Jeremyc  were  not  the  right  folks,  the  right  foik^ 
never  ^ame,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  week,  our  party  not  only 
eeased  to  be  conscious  of  their  precarious  footing  ir  the  house, 
lut  even  had  the  presumption  to  propose,  and  the  g(.)od  fortune 
Q>  obtain  a  f^^7orable  exchange  for  Emily  to  a  bed-room  uncn 


856 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


the  first  floor,  whiih  opened  directly  into  the  drawing-room,  anj 
savid  her  the  necessity  of  passing  up  and  down  the  often  crowded 
staircases. 

It  was  nearly  tea-time  on  the  day  of  their  arrival,  and  Emily 
and  Gertrude  had  just  completed  their  toilet,  when  there,  was  a 
light  rap  upon  their  door.  Gertrude  hastened  to  open  it,  and  to 
admit  Ellen  Gryseworth,  who,  while  she  saluted  her  Avith  southern 
warmth  of  manner,  hesitated  at  the  threshold,  saying,  ''  I  am 
afraid  you  will  think  me  an  intruder,  but  Netta  told  me  you  had 
arrived,  and  hearing  accidentally  from  the  chambermaid  that  you 
had  the  next  room  to  mine,  I  could  not  forbear  stopping  a  mo- 
ment  as  I  passed  to  tell  you  how  very  glad  I  am  to  s°ee  you 
again/' 

Gertrude  and  Emily  expressed  their  pleasure  at  the  meeting, 
thanked  her  for  her  want  of  ceremony,  and  urged  her  to  come  ia 
and  remain  with  them  until  the  gong  sounded  for  tea.  She 
availed  herself  of  the  invitation,  and  taking  a  seat  upon  the 
nearest  trunk,  proceeded  to  inquire  concerning  their  travels  and 
Emiiy-s  health  since  they  parted  at  West  Point. 

Among  other  adventures,  Gertrude  mentioned  their  having 
again  encountered  Mr.  Phillips.  "  Indeed  !  "  said  Miss  Grysc- 
worth,  "  he  seem^i  to  be  a  ubiquitous  individual.  He  was  in 
Saratoga  a  day  or  two  ago,  and  sat  opposite  to  me  at  our  dinner- 
table,  but  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  Did  you  become  acquainted 
with  him.  Miss  Graham  ? " 

1*1  am  sorry  to  say,  I  did  not,"  replied  Emily;  then,  looking 
femilingly  at  Gertrude,  she  added.  "  Gerty  was  so  anxious  for  an 
opportunity  to  introduce  me,  that  I  was  quite  grieved  for  her  dis- 
appointment." 

Then  you  liked  him  !  "  said  Miss  Gryseworth,  addressing 
herself  to  Gertrude,  and  speaking  with  great  earnestness.  ^»  I 
knew  you  would." 

*'He  interested  me  much,"  replied  Gertrude.  "  Tie  is  very 
agreeable,  very  peculiar,  and  to  me  rather  incomprehensible." 

"Non-committal,  I  see,"  said  Miss  Gryseworth,  archly.  "1 
hope  you  will  have  a  chance  to  make  up  your  mind;  it  is  more 
than  I  can  do,  t  cor  fess    for,  every  time  I  am  in  his  company,  I 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


357 


recognize  soire  new  and  unexpected  trait  of  character.  He 
got  so  ar.g\  y  with  one  Df  the  waiters,  the  day  he  dined  with  us  in 
New  rork,  that  I  WuS  actually  frightened.  However,  I  believe 
Iny  fears  were  groundless,  for  he  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
bandy  words  with  an  inferior,  and  though  his  eyes  flashed  like 
coals  of  fire,  he  kept  his  temper  from  blazing  forth.  I  will  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  that  this  great  indignation  did  not  spring 
from  any  neglect  he  had  himself  received,  but  from  the  man's 
gross  inattention  to  two  dowdy-looking  women  from  the  country, 
who  had  never  thouorht  of  such  a  thino;  as  feeino;  him,  and  there- 
fore  got  nothing  to  eat  until  everybody  else  had  finished,  and 
looked  all  the  time  as  disappointed  and  ashamed  as  if  they  were 
jmt  out  of  the  State  Prison." 

"  Too  bad  !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  energetically.  "  I  don't 
wonder  Mr.  Phillips  felt  provoked  with  the  mercenary  fellow.  I 
like  him  for  that." 

It  was  too  bad,"  said  Miss  Gryseworth.  "  I  could  n't  help 
pitying  them,  myself.  One  of  them  —  a  young  girl,  fresh  from  the 
churn,  who  had  worn  her  best  white  gown  on  purpose  to  make 
a  figure  in  the  city  —  looked  just  ready  to  burst  out  crying." 

*•  I  hope  such  instances  of  neglect  are  not  very  common,"  said 
G-evtrude.  "  I  am  afraid,  if  they  are,  Emily  and  I  shall  be  on 
the  crying  list,  for  Dr.  Jeremy  never  will  fee  the  waiters  before- 
hand ;  he  says  it  is  a  mean  thing,  and  he  should  scorn  to  com- 
majid  attention  in  that  way." 

"  0,  you  need  have  no  such  fear,"  said  Miss  Gryseworth. 
Persons  in  the  least  accustomed  to  hotel  life  can  always  com- 
mand a  moderate  share  of  attention,  especially  in  so  well-regu- 
lated an  establishment  as  this.  Grandmamma  shares  the  doctor's 
views  with  regard  to  bargaining  for  it  beforehand,  but  no  one 
ever  sees  her  neglected  here.  The  case  which  occurred  in  New 
York  w^as  a  gross  instance  of  that  partiality  for  which  the  public 
are  partly  to  blame.  The  waiters  can  tell  easily  enough  who 
wll:  endure  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  the  era")arrassed  faces 
of  :\  n  two  country  ladies,  who  found  so  fierce  an  advocate  in 
Wr.  Phillips  were  alcne  sufficient  to  lay  them  open  to  anj  degree 
of  neglect." 


858 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Anothe-  -ght  tap  at  the  door,  and  this  time  it  was  Neita 
GrjsewortQ.  who  entered,  exclaiming,  "  I  hear  Ellen's  voice,  so  I 
suppose  I  mav  come  in.  I  am  provoked,^'  added  she,  as  she 
kissed  Emily's  hand,  and  shook  Gertrude's  with  a  freedom  and 
vivacity  which  seemed  to  spring  partly  from  girlish  hoydenism 
and  partly  from  high-bred  independence  of  manner,  to  think 
that  while  I  have  been  watching  about  the  drawing-room  door-^ 
for  this  half-hour,  so  as  to  see  you  the  first  minute  you  came  in 
Ellen  has  been  sitting  here  on  a  trunk,  as  sociable  as  all  the 
world,  enjoying  your  society,  and  telling  you  every  bit  of  the 
news.** 

"Not  every  bit,  Netta,''  said  Ellen;  "I  have  left  several 
choice  little  morsels  for  you.'' 

"  Have  you  told  Miss  Flint  about  the  Foxes  and  the  Coxea 
that  were  here  yesterday  ?  —  Has  she,  Miss  Flint  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word  about  them,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Nor  about  the  fright  we  had  on  board  the  steamboat  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Nor  about  Mr.  Phillips'  being  here  ?  " 
"  O,  yes  !  she  told  us  that." 

"  Ah,  she  did ! "  exclaimed  Netta,  with  an  arch  look,  which 
c:5.11cd  up  her  sister's  blushes.  "  And  did  she  tell  you  how  he 
occupied  this  room,  and  how  we  heztrd  him  through  the  thin  par- 
tition pacing  up  and  down  all  night,  and  how  it  kept  me  from 
Bleeping,  and  gave  me  a  terrible  headache  all  the  next  day  ? " 

"  No,  she  did  not  tell  me  that,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  You  don't  either  of  you  walk  all  night,  do  you  ? "  asked 
Netta. 

'  Not  often." 

"  O,  how  thankful  we  ought  to  be  to  have  you  for  neighbors  ! ' 
replied  Netta.  *  If  that  horrible  man  had  staid  here  and  kept 
ap  that  measured  tread,  there  would  have  been  a  suicide  either 
in  his  room  or  ours  before  many  nights." 

"  Do  you  think  he  was  ill  ? "  inquired  Gertrude. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Ellen  ;  "  it  was  nothing  very  remarkable 
—  not  for  him,  at  least,  — all  his  habits  are  peculiar;  but  it  kepi 
Netta  awake  an  hour  or  two  and  made  her  iidgetty." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK, 


35^ 


•  An  hour  or  two,  Ellen  ? "  cried  Netta,  *  It  was  the  whole 
night . " 

''My  dear  siis,"  said  Ellen,  "}ou  don't  kiow  what  a  whole 
night  is.    You  never  saw  one.'' 

A  little  sisterly  discussion  might  have  ensued  about  the  length 
of  Mr.  Phillips'  walk  and  Netta's  consequent  wakefulness,  but, 
fortunately,  the  gong  sounded,  and  Neita  flew  off  to  her  own 
roonc  to  brush  out  her  puffs  before  tea. 

Saratoga  is  a  queer  place.  One  sees  congregated  there,  at 
the  height  of  the  season,  delegates  from  every  part  of  our  own 
and  from  many  foreign  countries.  Fashion's  ladder  is  trans- 
planted thither,  and  all  its  rounds  are  filled.  Beauty,  wealth, 
pride  and  folly,  are  well  represented ;  and  so  too  are  wit,  genius 
and  learning.  Idleness  reigns  supreme,  and  no  one,  not  even 
the  most  active,  busy  and  industrious  citizen  of  our  working  land, 
da^es,  in  this  her  legitimate  province,  to  dispute  her  temporary 
sway.  Every  rank  of  society,  every  profession,  and  almost  every 
trade,  meet  each  other  on  an  easy  and  friendly  footing.  The 
acknowledged  belle,  the  bearer  of  an  aristocratic  name,  the  owner 
of  a  well-filled  purse,  the  renowned  scholar,  artist  or  poet,  have 
all  a  conspicuous  sphere  to  shine  in.  There  are  many  counter 
feits,  too.  The  nobodies  at  home  stand  a  chance  to  be  considered 
somebodies  here ;  and  the  first  people  of  a  distant  city,  accus- 
tomed  to  consider  themselves  somebodies,  sit  in  corners  and  pout 
at  suddenly  finding  themselves  nobodies.  All  come,  however, 
from  a  common  motive ;  all  are  in  pursuit  of  amusement,  recre- 
ation and  rest  from  labor ;  and,  in  this  search  after  pleasure,  a 
friendly  and  benevolent  sentiment  for  the  most  part  prevails. 
All  are  in  motion,  and  the  throngs  of  well-dressed  people  moving 
to  and  fro,  on  foot,  on  horseback,  and  in  carriages,  together  with 
the  gay  assemblages  crowded  upon  the  piazzas  of  the  hotels,  con- 
stitute a  lively  and  festive  scene ;  and  he  who  loves  to  observe 
human  nature  may  study  it  here  in  its  most  animated  form. 

It  was  a  wholly  new  experience  to  Gertrude ;  and  although, 
in  the  comparative  retirement  and  privacy  of  Congress  Hall,  she 
saw  only  the  reflection  of  Saratoga  gayety,  and  heard  only  the 
echo  of  its  distant  hum,  there  was  enough  of  nov  iltj  and  excite- 


380 


TILE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ment  to  entertaiu,  amuse  and  surprise  one  who  was  a  complete 
novice  in  the  ways  of  fashionable  life.  In  the  circle  of  high-bred, 
polished,  literary  and  talented  persons  whom  Madam  Gryseworth 
drew  about  her,  and  into  which  Dr.  Jeremy's  party  were  at  once 
admitted  as  honored  members,  Gertrude  found  much  that  was 
congenial  to  her  cultivated  and  superior  taste,  and  she  herself 
30on  came  to  be  appreciated  and  admired  as  she  deserved. 
JIadam  Gryseworth  was  a  lady  of  the  old  school,  —  one  who  had 
all  her  life  been  accustomed  to  the  best  society,  and  who  con- 
tinued, in  spite  of  her  advanced  years,  to  enjoy  and  to  adorn  it. 
She  was  still  an  elegant-looking  woman,  tall  and  stately ;  and, 
though  a  little  proud,  and  to  strangers  a  little  reserved,  she  soop 
proved  herself  an  agreeable  companion  to  people  of  all  ages. 
For  the  first  day  or  two  of  their  acquaintance,  poor  Mrs.  Jeremy 
stood  much  in  awe  of  her,  and  could  not  feel  quite  at  ease  in  hex 
presence  ;  but  this  feeling  wore  off  wonderfully  quick,  and  the 
stout  little  doctor's  lady  soon  becams  exceedingly  confiding  and 
chatty  towards  the  august  dame. 

One  evening,  when  the  Jeremys  had  now  been  a  week  at  Sara- 
toga, as  Emily  and  Gertrude  were  leaving  the  tea-table,  they 
were  joined  by  Netta  Gryseworth,  who,  linking  her  arm  in  Ger- 
trude's, exclaimed,  in  her  usual  gay  manner,  "  Gertrude,  I  shall 
quarrel  with  you  soon  !  " 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Gertrude,    on  what  ground  ?  " 

"  Jealousy." 

Gertrude  blushed  slightly. 

0  !  you  needn't  turn  so  red;  it  is  not  on  account  ot  any 
gray -headed  gentleman's  staring  at  you  all  dinner-time,  from  the 
other  end  of  the  table.  No;  I'm  indifferent  on  that  score. 
Ellen  and  you  may  disagree  about  Mr.  Phillips'  attentions,  but 
I 'm  jealous  of  those  of  another  person." 

1  hope  Gertrude  isn't  interfering  with  your  happiness  in  any 
way,"  said  Emily,  smiling. 

She  is,  though,"  replied  Netta,  "  my  happiness,  my  pride,  my 
comfort.  She  is  underniinin;;  them  all  ;  she  would  not  dare  to 
oouduct  so,  Miss  Graham,  if  you  could  see  her  behc  v^ior," 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


861 


Tell  mo  all  about  it,"  said  Emilj,  coaxing! j, and  I  will  prom- 
[fee  to  interest  myself  for  you." 

*I  doubt  that,"  answered  Netta  ;  "  I  am  not  sure  but  you  are 
a  coadjutor  with  her.  However,  I  will  state  my  grievance.  Do 
you  not  see  how  entirely  she  engrosses  the  attention  of  an  import- 
ant peisonage  ?  Are  you  not  aware  that  Peter  has  ceased  to  have 
eyes  for  any  one  else  ?  For  my  own  part,  I  can  get  nothing  to  eat 
or  drink  unti.  Miss  Flint  is  served,  and  I 'm  determined  to  ask 
papa  to  change  our  seats  at  the  table.  It  is  n't  that  I  care  about 
my  food  ;  but  I  feel  insu.lted,  —  my  pride  is  essentially  wounded. 
A  few  days  ago,  I  was  a  great  favorite  with  Peter,  and  all  my  pet 
dishes  were  sure  to  be  placed  directly  in  front  of  me  ;  but  now  the 
tune  is  changed,  and,  this  very  evening,  I  saw  him  pass  Gertrude 
the  blackberries,  which  the  creature  knows  I  delight  in,  while  he 
pushed  a  dish  of  blues  towards  me  in  a  contemptuous  manner, 
which  seemed  to  imply,  *  Blueberries  are  good  enough  for  you^ 
miss ! '  " 

"  I  have  noticed  that  the  waiters  are  very  attentive  to  us,'' 
«5aid  Emily ';  "  do  you  suppose  Gertrude  has  been  secretly  brib- 
ing them  ?  " 

She  says  not,"  replied  Netta.  "  Didn't  you  tell  me  so  yester- 
day, Gertrude,  when  I  was  drawing  a  similar  comparison  between 
fcheir  devotion  to  you  and  to  our  party  ?  Didn't  you  tell  me  thai 
neither  the  doctor  nor  any  of  you  ever  gave  Peter  a  cent  ?  " 

*'  Certainly,"  answered  Gertrude ;  "  his  attentions  are  all  vol- 
untary ;  but  I  attribute  them  entirely  to  Emily's  influence,  anc 
his  desire  to  serve  her." 

"  It 's  no  such  thing !  "  said  Netta,  emphasizing  her  remark  by 
n>  mysterious  little  shake  of  the  head ;  —  "it 's  sorcery,  I 'm 
sure  of  it ;  you 've  been  practising  the  black  art,  Gertrude,  and 
I  '11  warn  Peter  this  very  day." 

As  she  spoke,  they  reached  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room 
where  the  old  ladies  Gryseworth  and  Jeremy  were  sitting  upon  a 
sofa,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation,  while  Ellen,  who  had  just 
returned  from  a  drive  with  her  father,  -tor  d  talking  with  him  and 
a  Mr.  Petrancourt,  who  had  that  evening  arrive!  from  New 
York. 


3t>2 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK 


The  ladies  on  the  sofa  made  room  for  Ecaily,  and  Nctta  ao^ 
Gertrude  seated  themselves  near  by.  Occasionally  Madam 
Grysewerth  cast  glances  of  annoyance  at  a  group  of  children  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  who  by  their  noisy  shouts  continually 
interrupted  her  remarks,  and  prevented  her  understanding  Titiose 
of  her  neighbor.  Gertrude's  attention  soon  became  attracted  by 
thorn  also  to  such  a  degree  that  she  did  not  hear  more  than  half 
of  the  lively  and  gay  sallies  of  wit  and  nonsense  which  Netta  con- 
tinned  to  pour  forth. 

"  Do  go  and  play  with  those  children,  Gertrude,"  said  Netta, 
at  last ;  "  I  know  you  're  longing  to." 

"  I 'm  longing  to  stop  their  play  !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude  ;  an 
apparently  ill-natured  remark,  which  we  are  bound  to  explain. 
Some  half-dozen  gayly  and  fancifully-dressed  children,  whose 
mothers  were  scattered  about  on  the  piazzas,  and  whose  nurses 
were  at  supper,  had  collected  around  a  strange  little  new-comer, 
whom  they  were  subjecting  to  every  species  of  persecution.  Her 
clothes,  though  of  rich  material,  were  most  untidily  arranged,  and 
appeared  somewhat  soiled  by  travelhng.  Her  little  black  silk 
frock  (for  the  child  was  clad  in  mourning)  seemed  to  be  quite 
outgrown,  being  much  shorter  than  some  of  her  other  garments, 
and  her  whole  appearance  denoted  great  negligence  on  the  part 
of  her  parents  or  guardian.  When  Madam  Gryseworth's  evi- 
dent disturbance  first  led  Gertrude  to  notice  the  youthful  group, 
this  little  girl  was  standing  in  their  midst,  looking  wildly  about 
her,  as  if  for  a  chance  to  escape  ;  but  this  the  children  prevented, 
and  continued  to  ply  her  with  questions,  each  of  which  called 
forth  a  derisive  shout  from  all  but  the  poor  little  object  of  attack, 
ji^ho,  on  her  part,  looked  ready  to  burst  into  tears.  Whether  the 
cene  reminded  Gertrude  of  some  of  her  own  experiences,  or 
merely  touched  the  chord  of  a  universal  spirit  of  sympathy  for 
the  injured,  she  could  not  keep  her  eyes  from  the  little  party ;  and, 
just  as  Netta  was  fairly  launched  upon  one  of  her  favorite  topics, 
—  namely,  Mr.  Phillips  and  his  unaccountable  conduct,  —  she 
sprung  from  her  seat,  exclaiming,  *'  They  shan't  torment  that  chiW 
EO !  "  and  hastily  crossed  the  room  to  the  rescue. 

Netta  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  Gertrude's  excited  and  CDtliu 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


303 


liastic  mrinner  of  starting  on  her  benevolent  errand ,  and  this^ 
iogeth3r  \Yith  the  unusual  circumstance  of  her  crossing  the  large 
and  crowded  room  hastily  and  alone,  drew  the  inquiries  of  all  the 
circle  whom  she  had  left,  and  during  her  absence  she  unconsciously 
became  the  subject  of  discussion  and  remark. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Netta  ?  "  aske.  Madam  Gryseworth. 
'  Where  has  Gertrude  gone  ? 

*'  To  ofler  herself  as  a  champion,  grandmamma,  for  that  lit  tie 
rowdj  -dowdy  looking  child," 

"  Is  she  the  one  who  has  been  making  all  this  noise  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  but  I  believe  she  is  the  cause  of  it." 

"  It  is  n't  every  girl,"  remarked  Ellen,  who  could  cross  a 
great  room  like  this  so  gracefully  as  Gertrude  can." 

"  She  has  a  remarkably  good  figure,"  said  Madam  Gryseworth, 
*and  knows  how  to  walk;  a  very  rare  accomplishment,  now-a-days." 

"  She  is  a  very  well-formed  girl,"  remarked  Dr.  Gryseworth, 
v^ho  had  observed  Gertrude  attentively  as  she  crossed  the  room, 
and  now,  hearing  her  commented  upon,  turned  to  take  his  part  in 
the  criticism  ;  "  but  the  true  secret  of  her  looking  so  completely 
the  lady  lies  in  her  having  uncommon  dignity  of  character,  being 
wholly  unconscious  of  observation  and  independent  of  the  wish  to 
attract  it,  and  therefore  simply  acting  herself.  She  dresses  w^ell, 
too ;  —  Ellen,  I  wish  you  would  imitate  Miss  Flint's  style  of  dress ; 
nothing  could  be  in  better  taste." 

"  Or  a  greater  saving  to  your  purse,  papa,"  whispered  Netta, 
*  Gertrude  dresses  very  simply." 

Miss  Flint's  style  of  dress  would  not  become  Miss  Gryse- 
worth," said  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Petrancourt,  wdio  approached  in 
ime  to  hear  the  doctor's  remark.  "  Your  daughter,  sir,  is  a  noble, 
showy-looking  girl,  and  can  carry  off  a  great  deal  of  dress.'' 

So  can  a  milliner's  doll,  Mrs.  Petrancourt.  However,  I  Enp- 
pose,  in  a  certain  sense,  you  are  right.  The  two  girls  are  not 
sufficiently  alike  to  resemble  each  other,  if  their  dresses  were 
matched  with  Chinese  exactness." 

"  Resemble  each  other  !  —  You  surely  would  not  wish  to  see 
your  beautiful  daughter  the  counterpart  of  one  who  has  not  half 
hei  attractions." 


3G4 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Are  yc  i  muoli  acquainted  witli  Miss  Flint  ^  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  Netta  pointed  her  out  to  me  at  the  tea  table 
%s  being  a  particular  friend." 

"  Then  you  must  excuse  me,  ma'am,  if  I  remark  that  it  is 
Impossible  you  should  have  any  idea  of  her  attractions,  as  they 
sertainl}/  lo  not  lie  on  the  surface." 

"  You  3onfess,  then,  that  you  do  not  think  her  handsome,  sir  ?  " 

"  To  ttU  the  truth,  I  never  thought  anything  about  it.  Ask 
Petrancourt ;  he  is  an  acknowledged  judge  ;"  and  the  doctor  bowed 
in  a  flattering  manner  to  the  lady,  who  had  been  the  belle  of  the 
season  at  the  time  her  hubband  paid  his  addresses  to  her. 

"  I  will,  when  I  can  get  a  chance ;  but  he  is  standing  too  near 
the  blind  lady,  —  Miss  Flint's  aunt,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  Particular  friend  ;  not  her  aunt." 

This  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  a  low  voice,  that 
Emily  might  not  hear  it.  Others,  however,  were  either  more 
careless  or  more  indifferent  to  her  presence ;  for  Madam  Gryse- 
worth  began  to  speak  of  Gertrude  without  restraint,  and  she  wan 
at  this  moment  saying,  "  One  must  see  her  under  peculiar  circum* 
stances  to  be  struck  with  her  beauty  at  once  ;  —  for  instance,  as  I 
did  yesterday,  when  she  had  just  returned  from  horseback-riding, 
and  her  face  was  in  a  glow  from  exercise  and  excitement ;  or  aa 
she  looks  when  animated  by  her  intense  interest  in  some  glowing 
and  eloquent  speaker,  or  when  her  feelings  are  suddenly  touched, 
and  the  tears  start  into  her  eyes,  and  her  whole  soul  shines  out 
ihrough  them !  " 

"  Why,  grandmamma  !  "  cried  Netta,  "  you  are  really  elo- 
quent !  " 

"  So  is  Gertrude,  at  such  times  as  those  I  speak  of.  0  !  she 
is  a  girl  after  my  own  heart." 

"  She  must  be  a  very  agreeable  young  lady,  from  your  account," 
said  Mr.  Petrancourt.    "  We  must  know  her." 

"  You  will  not  find  her  at  all  the  same  stamp  as  most  cf  the  agree- 
Me  young  ladies  whom  you  meet  in  the  gay  circles.  I  mikst  tell 
you  what  Horace  Willard  said  of  her.  He  is  an  accomplished 
aaan  and  a  scholar,  —  hisf  opinion  is  worth  something.  He  had 
t>een  stay  tog  a  fortnight  at  the  United  States  Hotel,  and  used  to 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


•365 


call  here  occasioually,  to  see  us.  The  day  lie  left,  he  came  fco  me 
and  said,  *  Where  is  Miss  Flint  ?  I  must  have  one  more  refresh- 
ing conversation  with  her  before  I  go.  It  is  a  perfect  rest  to  be 
in  that  young  lady's  society,  for  she  never  seems  to  be  making  the 
least  effort  to  talk  with  me,  or  to  expect  any  attempt  on  my  part ; 
she  is  one  of  the  few  girls  who  never  speak  unless  they  have  some- 
thing to  say.'  — How  she  has  contrived  to  quiet  those  children  !  " 

Mr.  Petrancourt  followed  the  direction  of  Madam  Gryseworth's 
eyes.  "  Is  that  the  young  lady  you  are  speaking  of?  "  asked  he. 
"  The  one  with  great,  dark  eyes,  and  such  a  splendid  head  of  hair  « 
I  have  been  noticing  her  for  some  time." 

"  Yes,  that  is  she,  talking  to  the  little  girl  in  black." 

"Madam  Gryseworth,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  through  the  long, 
open  window,  and  stepping  inside  as  he  spoke,  "  I  see  you  appre- 
ciate our  Gerty ;  I  did  not  say  too  much  in  praise  of  her  good 
sense,  did  I  ?  " 

"  Not  half  enough,  doctor ;  she  is  a  very  bright  girl,  and  a 
very  good  one,  I  believe." 

"  Good !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor  ;  "  I  did  n't  know  that  goodness 
counted  in  these  places ;  but,  if  goodness  is  worth  speaking  of,  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  a  little  of  what  I  know  of  that  girl  ;  "  — 
and,  without  going  closely  into  particulars,  he  commenced  dilating 
enthusiastically  upon  Gertrude's  noble  and  disinterested  conduct 
under  trying  circumstances,  and,  warming  with  his  subject,  had 
recounted,  in  a  touching  manner,  her  devotion  to  one  old  paralytic, 
' —  to  another  infirm,  imbecile  and  ill-tempered  old  man  and  his 
tlowly-declining  daughter,  —  and  would  have  proceeded,  perhaps,  to 
speak  of  her  recent  self-sacrificing  labors  in  Emily's  service ;  but 
Miss  Graham  touched  his  arm,  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  intei- 
rupted  him. 

He  stopped  abruptly.  "  Emily,  my  dear "  said  he,  ^'  I  be^ 
your  pardon ;  I  did  n't  know  you  were  here ;  bat  what  you  say  is 
very  true.  Gertrude  is  a  private  character,  and  I  have  no  right 
to  bring  her  before  the  public.  I  am  an  old  fool,  certainly ;  but 
there,  we  are  all  friends."  And  he  looked  around  the  circle  a 
little  anxiously,  cast  a  slightly  suspicious  glance  at  the  Petrari- 
courts,and  finall}'  rested  his  guze  upon  a  figure  directly  Lehird  Ellen 
81  # 


366 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Gryseworth.  The  latter  turned,  not  having  been  previously  aware 
that  any  stranger  was  in  the  neighborhood,  and,  to  her  surprise, 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Phillips ! 

"  Good-evening,  sir,"  said  she,  on  recognizing  him;  but  ho  did 
not  seem  to  hear  her.  Madam  Gryseworth,  who  had  never  seen 
him  before,  looked  up  inquiringly. 

Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Ellen,  "shall  I  make  you  acquaintea  with 
Mrs.  Gryseworth,  my  — "  But,  before  she  could  complete  the 
introduction,  he  had  darted  quickly  through  the  window,  and  was 
walking  across  the  piazza  with  hasty  strides.  He  drew  forth  his 
handkerchief,  wiped  the  moisture  from  his  brow,  and  unseen  and 
unsuspected,  brushed  away  a  tear. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIl 


It  was  not  thus  in  other  days  we  met  : 

Hath  time,  hath  absence,  taught  thee  to  forget  1 

Mbs  Hemans. 

Lateta  in  the  evening,  when  Gertrude,  having  resigned  her  lit* 
tie  charge  to  the  nurse  who  came  to  seek  her,  had  again  joined 
her  party,  the  attention  of  every  one  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
worn  was  attracted  by  the  entrance  of  a  beautiful  and  showily- 
dressed  young  lady,  attended  by  two  or  three  gentlemen.  After 
glancing  round  the  room  for  the  person  whom  she  came  to  seek, 
she  advanced  towards  Mrs.  Petrancourt,  who,  on  her  part,  rose  to 
receive  her  young  visitor.  Unexpected  as  the  meeting  was  to 
Gertrude,  she  at  once  recognized  Isabel  Clinton,  who,  however, 
passed  both  her  and  Emily  without  observing  them,  and,  there 
being  no  vacant  chair  near  at  hand,  seated  herself  with  Mrs. 
Petrancourt  on  a  couch  a  little  further  up  the  room,  and  entered 
into  earnest  and  familiar  conversation ;  nor  did  she  change  her 
position  or  look  in  the  direction  of  Dr.  Jeremy's  party,  until  just 
as  she  was  taking*  her  leave.  She  would  have  passed  them  then 
without  noticing  their  presence,  but  accidentally  hearing  Dr.  Gryse- 
worth  address  Miss  Flint  by  name,  she  half  turned,  caught  Ger- 
trude's eye,  spoke  a  careless  "  How  do  you  do,"  with  that  sort  of 
indifference  with  which  one  salutes  a  very  slight  acquaintance,  cast 
a  look  back  at  Emily,  surveyed  with  an  impertinent  air  of  curios- 
ity the  rest  of  the  circle  to  whick  they  belonged,  and,  without 
stopping  to  exchange  words  or  inquiries,  walked  off  whispering  to 
her  companions  some  satirical  comments  both  upon  the  place  and 
the  company. 

O,  what  a  beautj  exclaimed  Netta  to  Mrs  Petrancourt 
'  Who  is  she  'f 


B68 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Mrs.  Petranoourt  related  what  she  knew  of  Miss  Glincoii ;  tod 
how  she  had  travelled  with  her  in  Switzerland,  and  met  her 
afterwards  in  Paris,  where  she  was  universally  admired ;  then, 
turning  to  Gertrude,  she  remarked,  ^'  You  are  acquainted  with 
her,  I  see.  Miss  Flint." 

Gertrude  replied  that  she  knew  her  before  she  went  abroad,  i^ul 
had  seen  nothing  of  her  since  her  return. 

"  She  has  but  just  arrived,"  said  Mrs.  Petrancourt;  "  she  cama 
with  her  father  in  the  last  steamer,  and  has  been  in  Saratoga  hut 
a  day  or  two.  She  is  making  a  great  sensation  at  the  United 
States,  I  hear,  and  has  troops  of  beaux." 

"  Most  of  whom  are  probably  aware,"  remarked  Mr.  Petran* 
court,  "  that  she  will  have  plenty  of  money  one  of  these  days." 

Emily's  attention  was  by  this  time  attracted.  She  had  been 
conversing  with  Ellen  Gryseworth,  but  now  turned  to  ask  Ger- 
irude  if  they  were  speaking  of  Isabel  Clinton. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  taking  upon  himself  to  reply,  "and 
if  she  were  not  the  rudest  girl  in  the  world,  my  dear,  you  would 
not  have  remained  so  long  in  ignorance  of  her  having  been  here." 

Emily  forbore  to  make  any  comment.  It  did  not  surprise  her 
to  hear  that  the  Clintons  had  returned  home,  as  they  had  separ- 
ated from  the  Grahams  soon  after  the  latter  went  abroad,  and  she 
had  since  heard  nothing  of  their  movements  j  nor  was  she  aston- 
ished at  any  degree  of  incivility  from  one  who  sometimes  seemec 
ignorant  of  the  most  common  rules  of  politeness.  Gertrude  was: 
silent  also ;  but  she  burned  inwardly,  as  she  always  did,  at  any 
slights  being  offered  to  the  gentle  Emily. 

Gertrude  and  Dr.  Jeremy  were  always  among  the  earliest 
morning  visitors  at  the  spring.  The  doctor  enjoyed  drinking  the 
water  at  this  hour;  and,  as  Gertrude  was  an  early  riser  and  fond 
of  walking  before  breakfast,  he  made  it  a  point  that  she  should 
iiccompany  him,  partake  of  the  beverage  of  which  he  was  him- 
self so  fond,  and  afterwards  join  him  in  brisk  pedestrian  exercise 
until  near  the  hour  of  the  morning  meal,  which  was  as  early  as 
Mrs.  Jeremy  or  Emily  cared  to  have  their  slumbers  disturbed. 

On  the  morning  succeeding  the  evening  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking  they  had  as  usual  presented  themselves  At  tfcie  spring 


THE  LAMPIIGHTEK. 


369 


Gr.3ifcrude  had  gratified  the  doctor,  and  made  a  martyr  of  herself 
by  imbibing  a  tumbler-full  of  a  water  which  she  found  very  un 
palatable ;  and  he  having  quaffed  his  seventh  glass^  they  had 
both  proceeded  some  distance  on  one  more  walk  around  the 
grounds,  when  he  suddenly  missed  his  cane,  and,  believing  that 
he  had  left  it  at  the  spring,  declared  his  intention  to  return  and 
look  for  it. 

Gertrude  would  have  gone  back  also,  but,  as  there  might  be 
some  difficulty  and  delay  in  recovering  it,  he  insisted  upon  her 
continuing  her  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  circular  railway, 
promising  to  come  round  the  other  way  and  meet  her.  She  had 
proceeded  some  little  distance,  and  was  walking  thoughtfully 
along,  when,  at  an  abrupt  winding  in  the  path,  she  observed  a 
couple  approaching  her,  —  a  young  lady  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
gentleman.  A  straw  hat  partly  concealed  the  face  of  the  latter, 
but  in  the  former  she  at  once  recognized  Belle.  Clinton.  It  was 
equally  evident,  too,  that  Belle  saw  Gertrude,  and  knew  her,  but 
did  not  mean  to  acknowledge  her  acquaintance ;  for,  after  the 
first  glance,  she  kept  her  eyes  obstinately  fixed  either  upon  hei 
companion  or  the  ground.  This  conduct  did  not  disturb  Ger- 
trude  in  the  least ;  Belle  could  not  feel  more  indifferent  about 
the  acquaintance  than  she  did ;  but,  being  thus  saved  the  neces- 
sity of  awaiting  and  returning  any  salutation  from  that  quarter, 
she  naturally  bestowed  her  passing  glance  upon  the  gentleman 
who  accompanied  Miss  Clinton.  He  looked  up  at  the  same  in- 
stant, fixed  his  full  gray  eyes  upon  her,  with  merely  thai  careless 
look,  however,  with  which  one  stranger  regards  another,  then, 
turning  as  carelessly  away,  made  some  slight  remark  to  his  com- 
panion, 

Thoy  pass  on.  They  have  gone  some  steps,  —  but  Gertrude 
stands  fixed  to  the  spot.  She  feels  a  great  throbbing  at  her  heart. 
She  knows  that  look,  that  voice,  as  well  as  if  she  had  seen  and 
heard  them  yesterday.    Could  Gertrude  forget  Willie  Sullivan  ? 

But  he  has  forgotten  her.  Shall  she  run  after  him,  and  stop 
him,  and  catch  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and  compel  him  to  see,  and 
know,  and  speak  to  hf-r  ?  She  started  one  step  forward  in  the 
direction  he  had  taken  then  suddenly  paused  and  hesitated  A 


37) 


TKE  LA^IPLIGHTER. 


crowd  of  emotions  choked,  blinded,  suffocated  her,  and  wliileshe 
wrtstled  with  them  and  they  with  her,  he  turned  the  Cvirner  and 
passed  out  of  sight.    She  covered  her  face  with  lier  hands  (a) 
ways  her  firs^.  im^julse  in  moments  of  distress),  and  leaned  against 
a  tree. 

Tt  was  'Willie.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that ;  but  not  her 
\\  illie,  — the  hoy  ^Villie.  It  was  true,  time  had  ad  leJ  but  little 
to  bis  height  or  breadth  of  figure,  for  he  was  a  well-grown  youth 
when  he  went  away.  But  six  years  of  Eastern  life,  including  no 
small  amount  of  travel,  care,  exposure  and  suffering,  had  done 
tho  work  that  twice  that  Time  would  ordinarily  have  accom 
^lished. 

The  fresh  complexion  of  the  boy  had  given  place  to  the  palei 
bea.  d-darkened  and  .'omewhat  sun-browned  tints  that  mark  a 
ripened  manhood ;  the  joyous  eye  had  a  deeper  cast  of  thought 
the  elastic  step  a  more  firm  and  measured  tread;  while  the  beam- 
ing, sunny  expression  of  countenance  had  given  place  to  a  certain 
grave  and  composed  look,  which  marked  his  features  when  in 
repi sc. 

The  winning  attractiveness  of  the  boy,  however,  had  but  given 
place  to  equal,  if  not  superior  qualities  in  the  man,  who  was  still 
cminontly  handsome,  and  gifted  with  that  inborn  and  natural 
grace  and  ease  of  deportment  which  win  universal  remark  and 
commendation.  The  broad,  open  forehead,  the  lines  of  mild  but 
firm  decision  about  the  mouth,  the  frank,  fearless  manner,  were  as 
marked  as  ever,  and  were  alone  sufficient  to  betray  his  identity  to 
one  upon  whose  memory  these,  and  all  his  other  characteristics 
were  indelibly  stamped  ;  and  Gertrude  needed  not  the  sound  of 
his  well-known  voice,  though  that,  too,  at  the  same  moment  fcl, 
upon  her  ear.  to  proclaim  at  once  to  her  beating  heart  that  Willio 
Sullivan  had  met  her  face  to  face,  had  passed  on,  and  that  she 
was  left  alone,  unrecognized,  univuown,  and,  to  all  appearance, 
unthought  of  aud  uncared  for  I 

For  a  time,  ibis  bitter  thought,  "  He  does  not  know  me,"  was 
^ione  present  lo  her  mind  ;  it  filled  and  engrossed  her  entire  im. 
agmation,  and  sent  a  thrill  of  surprise  and  agony  through  hei 
whole  frame.    She  did  not  stop  to  reflect  upon  the  fact  that  she 


THJB  LAlMPLIGHTElt. 


«7as  but  a  child  when  she  parted  from  him,  and  that  tho  change  in 
her  appearance  must  be  immense.  Far  less  did  it  occur  to  her 
to  congratulate  herself  upon  a  transformation  every  shade  of 
which  had  been  to  her  a  proportionate  improvement  and  advan- 
tage. The  one  painfrd  idea,  that  she  was  forgotten  and  lost,  us 
it  were,  to  the  dear  friend  of  her  childhood,  obliterated  everj 
other  recollection.  Had  they  both  been  children,  as  in  the 
earlier  days  of  their  brother  and  sister  hood,  it  would  have  been 
easy,  and  but  natural,  to  dart  forward,  overtake,  and  claim  him. 
But  time,  in  the  changes  it  had  wrought,  had  built  up  a  huge 
barrier  between  them.  Gertrude  was  a  woman  now,  with  all  a 
woman's  pride;  and  delicacy  and  maiden  modesty  deterred  her 
from  the  course  which  impulse  and  old  affection  prompted. 
Other  feelings,  too,  soon  crowded  into  her  mind,  in  confused  and 
mingled  array.  Why  was  Willie  here,  and  with  Isabel  Clinton 
leaning  on  his  arm  ?  How  came  he  on  this  side  the  ocean  ?  and 
how  happened  it  that  he  had  not  immediately  sought  herself,  the 
earliest,  and,  as  she  had  supposed,  almost  the  only  friend  he  had 
left  to  welcome  him  back  to  his  native  land  ?  Why  had  he  not 
3rritten  and  warned  her  of  his  coming  ?  How  should  she  account 
Tor  his  strange  silence,  and  the  still  stranger  circumstance  of  his 
hurrying  at  once  to  the  haunts  of  fashion,  without  once  visiting 
the  city  of  his  birth,  and  the  sister  of  his  adoption  ? 

Question  after  question,  and  doubt  following  doubt,  rushed  into 
her  mind  so  confusedly,  that  she  could  not  reflect,  could  not  come 
to  any  conclusion  in  the  matter.  She  could  only  feel  and  weep ; 
and,  giving  way  to  her  overpowering  emotion,  she  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears. 

Poor  child!  It  was  so  different  a  meeting  from  what  she 
tiad  imagined  and  expected  !  For  the  six  years  that  she  had  been 
growing  into  womanhood,  it  had  been  the  dream  of  her  wakiiig 
hours,  and  had  come  as  a  beautiful  though  transient  reality  to 
her  happy  sleep.  He  could  hardly  have  presented  himself  at 
any  hour  of  the  da^  or  night,  scarcely  in  any  disguise,  that  would 
not  have  been  foreseen  and  anticipated.  He  could  have  used  na 
form  (^f  greeting  that  had  not  already  rung  in  the  ears  of  hel 
taucy  •  he  could  bestow  upon  her  no  look  that  would  not  be 


312 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


familiar.  What  Willie  would  say  when  he  Srst  sa\^  her,  -^^hat 
he  would  do  to  express  his  delight,  the  questions  he  would  ask, 
the  exclamations  he  would  utter  and  the  corresponding  replies 
on  her  part,  the  happiness  of  them  both  (lately  sobered  and  sub- 
duel  to  her  imagination  by  the  thought  of  the  dear  departed  ones 
thej-  had  both  loved  so  well),  —  all  this  had  been  rehearsed  by 
Gertrude  again  and  again,  in  every  new  instance  taking  some 
new  form,  or  varied  by  some  additional  circumstance. 

But,  among  all  her  visions,  there  had  been  none  which  in  the 
least  approached  the  reality  of  this  painful  experience  that  had 
suddenly  plunged  her  into  disappointment  and  sorrow.  Her  dark- 
est  dreams  had  never  pictured  a  meeting  so  chilling;  her  most 
fearful  forebodings  (and  she  had  of  late  had  many)  had  never 
prefigured  anything  so  heart-rending  as  this  seemingly  total 
annihilation  of  all  the  sweet  and  cherished  relations  that  had 
subsisted  between  herself  and  the  long-absent  and  exiled  wan- 
derer. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  she  forgot  the  place,  the  time,  every- 
thing but  her  own  overwhelming  grief;  and  that,  as  she  stood 
leaning  against  the  old  tree,  her  chest  heaved  with  sobs  too  deep 
for  utterance,  and  great  tears  trickled  from  her  eyes,  and  between 
the  little  taper  fingers  that  vainly  sought  to  hide  her  disturbed 
countenance. 

She  was  startled  from  her  position  by  the  sound  of  an  approach- 
ing  footstep.  Hastily  starting  forward,  without  looking  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  came,  and  throwing  a  lace  veil  (which- 
as  the  day  was  warm,  was  the  only  protection  she  wore  upon  her 
head)  in  such  a  manner  as  to  hide  her  face,  she  wiped  away  her 
fast-flowing  tears,  and  hastened  on,  to  avoid  being  overtaken  and 
observed  by  any  of  the  numerous  strangers  who  frequented  the 
grounds  at  this  hour. 

Half-blinded,  however,  by  the  thick  folds  of  the  veil,  and  her 
sight  rendered  still  dimmer  by  the  tears  which  continued  to  fill 
her  eyes,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  unsteady  course  she 
was  pursuing,  when  suddenly  a  loud,  whizzing  noise,  cl(.se  tc 
her  ears,  frightened  and  confused  her  so  that  she  knew  not  which 
^vay  to  turn ;  nor  had  she  time  to  take  a  single  step  ;  for,  at  the 


THE  L\MrLlUHTEK. 


37^ 


BaHiO  hiistdni,  an  arm  was  suddenly  flung  round  I  er  .vaist,  she 
was  forcibly  lifted  from  her  feet  with  as  much  ease  and  light- 
aess  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child,  and,  before  she  was  conscious 
what  was  taking  place,  found  herself  detained  and  supported  by 
tii.3  same  strong  arm,  while  just  in  front  of  her  a  little  hand-car 
containing  two  persons  was  whirling  by  at  full  speed.  One  step 
more,  and  she  would  have  reached  the  track  of  the  miniature  rail- 
way, and  been  exposed  to  serious,  perhaps  fatal  injury,  from  the 
rapidly-moving  vehicle.  Flinging  back  her  veil,  she  at  once  per- 
ceived her  fortunate  escape ;  and,  being  at  the  same  moment 
released  from  the  firm  grasp  of  her  rescuer,  she  turned  upon 
him  a  half-confused,  half-grateful  face,  whose  disturbed  expres- 
sion was  much  enhanced  by  her  previous  excitement  and  tears. 

Mr.  Phillips — for  it  was  he  —  looked  upon  her  in  the  most  tender 
and  pitying  manner.  "  Poor  child !  "  said  he,  soothingly,  at  the 
same  time  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  "  you  were  very  much 
'inghtened.  Here,  sit  down  upon  this  bench ; "  and  he  would 
have  drawn  her  towards  a  seat,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  sig- 
nified by  a  movement  her  wish  to  proceed  towards  the  hotel, 
She  could  not  speak;  the  kindness  of  his  look  and  voice  only 
served  to  increase  her  trouble,  and  rob  her  of  the  power  to  artic- 
ulate. 

So  he  walked  on  in  perfect  silence,  supporting  her,  however, 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  bestowing  upon  her  many  an  anxious 
glance.  At  last,  making  a  great  effort  to  recover  her  calmness, 
she  partially  succeeded,  —  so  much  so  that  he  ventured  to  speak 
fNgain,  and  asked,  "  Did  /  frighten  you  ?  " 

You  ?  "  replied  she,  in  a  iow,  and  somewhat  unsteady  voice. 
'  O,  no !  you  are  very  kind." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  are  so  disturbed,"  said  he  ;  "  those  little  cars 
are  troublesome  things ;  I  wish  they 'd  put  a  stop  to  them  " 

''The  car?"  said  Gertrude,  in  an  absent  way.  "  O,  yes,  I 
forgot." 

"  You  ^re  a  little  nervous,  I  fear ;  can't  you  get  Dr.  Jeremy 
to  prescribe  for  you  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  !    He  wont  back  for  his  cane  I  believe." 
Mr.  Phillips  saw  that  she  was  bewildered,  obtuse  he  knew^fchi 
32 


374 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK 


never  was,  for,  within  the  last  few  days,  his  acquaintance  pii:r 
tier  had  grcv/n  and  ripened  by  frequent  intercourse.  He  foiDcre 
any  attempt  at  conversation,  and  they  continued  their  walk  to 
the  hotel  without  another  word.  Just  before  leavinfT  her,  how- 
ever,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  interest,  as  he  held  her 
band  for  a  moment  at  parting,  "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ? 
Can  I  help  you  ?  " 

Gertrude  looked  up  at  him.  She  saw  at  once,  from  his  coun- 
tenance, that  he  understood  and  realized  that  she  was  unhappy, 
not  nervous.  Her  eyes  thanked  him  as  they  again  glistened 
behind  a  shower  of  tears.  "No,  no,"  gasped  she,  "but  you  are 
very  good ;  "  and  she  hastened  into  the  house,  leaving  him  stand- 
ing for  more  than  a  minute  in  the  spot  where  she  had  left  him, 
gazing  at  the  door  by  which  she  had  disappeared,  as  if  she  were 
still  in  sight,  and  he  were  watching  her. 

Gertrude's  first  thought,  after  parting  from  Mr.  Phillips  and 
gaining  the  shelter  of  the  hotel,  was,  how  she  might  best  concea) 
from  all  her  friends,  and  especially  from  Miss  Graham,  any 
knowledge  of  the  load  of  grief  she  was  sustaining.  That  she 
would  receive  sympathy  and  comfort  from  Emily  there  could 
be  no  doubt ;  but,  in  proportion  as  she  loved  and  respected  her 
benefactress,  did  she  shrink,  with  jealous  sensitiveness,  from  any 
disclosure  which  was  calculated  to  lessen  Willie  Sullivan  in  the 
estimation  of  one  in  whose  opinion  she  was  anxious  that  he 
should  sustain  the  high  place  to  which  her  own  praises  had 
cxaited  him. 

The  chief  knowledge  that  Emily  had  of  Willie  was  derived 
from  Gertrude,  and  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  tenderness  for  him 
and  pride  on  her  own  account  did  the  latter  dread  to  disclose  the 
fact  that  he  had  returned  after  so  many  years  of  absence,  that 
she  had  met  him  in  the  public  walks  of  Saratoga,  and  that  he 
had  passed  her  carelessly  by. 

The  possibility  naturally  presented  itfelf  to  her  mind  that  he 
had  indeed  visited  Boston,  sought  her,  and,  learning  where  she 
might  be  found,  had  come  hither  purposely  to  see  her ;  nor,  on 
ealm  reflection  did  this  supposition  seem  contradicted  by  hi.^^ 
failing,  cn  a  mere  casual  glance^  to  recognize  her ;  for  she  coidd 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


875 


not  be  ignorant  or  insensible  of  the  vast  change  which  had  taken 
place  both  in  her  face  and  figure.  But  the  ray  of  hope  which 
this  thought  called  up  was  quickly  dissipated  by  the  recollection 
ot  a  letter  received  the  previous  evening  from  Mrs.  Ellis  (now 
acting  as  housekeeper  at  Dr.  Jeremy's),  which  would  certainly 
have  mentioned  the  arrival  of  so  important  a  visitor.  There  was, 
However,  the  still  further  possibility  that  this  arrival  might  have 
^.akBn  place  since  the  date  of  Mrs.  Ellis'  concise  epistle,  and  that 
Willie  might  have  but  just  reached  his  destination,  and  not  yet 
Had  time  to  discover  her  temporary  place  of  abode.  Though  the 
leisurely  manner  in  which  he  was  escorting  Miss  Clinton  on  her 
morning  walk  seemed  to  contradict  the  supposiJ^ion,  Gertrude, 
clinging  fondly  to  this  frail  hope,  and  believing  that  the  rest  of 
the  day  would  not  pass  without  his  presenting  himself  at  the 
hotel,  determined  to  concentrate  all  her  energies  in  the  effort  to 
maintain  her  usual  composure,  at  least  until  her  fears  should 
become  certainties. 

It  was  very  hard  for  her  to  appear  as  usual,  and  elude  the 
vigilance  of  the  affectionate  and  careful  Emily,  who,  always 
deeply  conscious  of  her  responsibility  towards  her  yonnn  charge, 
and  fearful  lest,  owing  to  her  blindness,  she  might  ufien  be  an 
Insufficient  protection  to  one  of  so  ardent  and  excitable  a  tem- 
perament, was  keenly  alive  to  every  sensation  and  emotion  expe- 
rienced by  Gertrude,  especially  to  any  fluctuation  in  her  usually 
cheerful  spirits. 

And  Gertrude's  spirits,  even  when  she  had  armed  herself  with 
confidence  and  hope  by  the  encouraging  thought  that  Willie 
would  yet  prove  faithful  to  his  old  friendship,  could  not  but  be 
Borely  depressed  by  the  consciousness  now  forced  upon  her  that 
he  could  no  longer  be  to  her  as  he  had  once  been ;  that  they  could 
m  vQY  meet  on  the  same  footing  on  which  they  had  parted ;  that 
he  was  a  man  of  the  world  now,  with  new  relations,  new  cares, 
new  interests;  and  that  sh3  had  oeen  deceiving  herself,  and  labor- 
ing under  a  fond  delusior.,  in  cherishing  the  belief  that  in  their 
case  the  laws  of  nature  would  be  suspended,  and  time  have  na 
power  to  alter  or  modify  the  nature  and  extent  of  their  mutual 
siffection     Thera  was  something  in  the  very  circumstance  cf  \iQt 


^76 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


firjs^u  meedng  him  in  company  with  Isabel  Clinton  which  tended 
to  impress  her  with  this  conviction.  Isabel,  of  all  people,  one 
so  essentially  worldly,  and  with  whom  she  had  so  little  sympath;y 
or  congeniality  !  True,  she  was  the  daughter  of  Willie's  early 
and  generous  employer,  now  the  senior  partner  in  the  mercantile 
house  to  which  he  belonged,  and  would  not  only  be  likely  to  form 
his  acquaintance,  but  would  have  an  undoubted  claim  to  every 
polite  attention  he  might  have  it  in  his  power  to  pay  her  ;  but 
still  Gertrude  could  not  but  feel  a  greater  sense  of  estrange- 
ment, a  chilling  presentiment  of  sorrow,  from  seeing  him  thus 
familiarly  associated  with  one  who  had  invariably  treated  her 
with  scorn  and  incivility. 

There  was  but  one  thing  for  her  to  do,  however ;  to  call  up  all 
her  self-command,  bring  pride  even  to  her  aid,  and  endeavor,  in 
any  event,  to  behave  with  serenity  and  composure.  The  very 
fear  that  one  keen  and  searching  pair  of  eyes  had  already  pene- 
trated her  secret  so  far  as  to  discover  that  she  was  afflicted  in 
some  form  or  other  served  to  put  her  still  more  upon  her  guard ; 
and  she  therefore  compelled  herself  to  enter  the  room  where 
Emily  was  awaiting  her,  bid  her  a  cheerful  "  good-morning,"  and 
assist,  as  usual,  in  the  completion  of  her  toilet.  Her  face  still 
bore  indications  of  recent  tears  ;  but  that  Emily  could  not  see, 
and  by  breakfast-time  even  they  were  effectually  removed. 

Now,  again,  new  trials  awaited  her ;  for  Dr.  Jeremy,  accord- 
ing to  his  promise,  had,  after  recovering  the  missing  cane,  gone 
to  meet  her  in  the  direction  agreed  upon,  and,  finding  her  false 
to  her  appointment,  and  nowhere  to  be  found  among  the  grounds, 
was  full  of  inquiries  as  to  the  path  she  had  taken,  and  her 
reasons  for  giving  him  the  slip. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  recollected  the  doctor's  promise  to 
rejoin  her,  and  the  stipulation  that  she  should  proceed  in  the 
path  she  was  then  following ;  but,  having,  until  these  questions 
were  put  to  her,  quite  forgotten  the  old  gentleman,  she  was 
unprepared  for  a  reply,  blushed,  and  became  very  much  confused. 
The  truth  was  that  when  Gertrude  heard  Mr.  Phillips  approach- 
ing in  the  direction  she  should  have  taken,  she,  in  her  eagerness 
K  avoid  meeting  an  7  one,  took  the  contrary  path  to  that  she  had 


THE  LAMPIilGHTEH. 


37t 


been  pursuing  Lnd,  after  he  joined  her,  retraced  h^r  steps  to  the 
hotel  in  the  same  way  she  had  come,  consequently  eluding  the 
search  o:  the  doctor. 

But,  before  she  could  plead  any  excuse,  Netta  Gryseworth 
3ame  running  up,  evidently  full  of  pleasantry  and  fun,  and,  lean- 
ing over  Gertrude's  shoulder,  said,  in  a  whisper  loud  enough  to 
he  heard  by  all  the  little  circle,  who  were  being  delayed  on  their 
way  to  breakfast  by  the  doctor's  demand  for  an  explanation, 

Gertrude,  my  dear,  such  affecting  partings  ought  to  be  private , 
t  wonder  you  allow  them  to  take  place  directly  at  the  door-step." 

This  remark  did  not  lessen  Gertrude's  discomfiture,  which 
became  extreme  on  Dr.  Jeremy's  catching  Netta  by  the  arm,  as 
she  was  about  to  run  off,  and  insisting  upon  knowing  her  mean- 
ing, declaring  that  he  already  had  suspicions  of  Gertrude,  and 
wanted  to  know  who  she  had  been  walking  with. 

0,  a  certain  tall  young  beau  of  hers,  who  stood  gazing  after 
her  when  she  left  him,  until  I  began  to  fear  the  cruel  creature 
had  turned  him  into  stone.  What  did  you  do  to  the  poor  man, 
Gertrude  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Gertrude.  "  He  saved  me  from  being 
thrown  down  by  the  little  rail-car,  and  afterwards  walked  home 
with  me." 

Gertrude  answered  seriously  ;  she  could  have  laughed  and 
joked  with  Netta  at  any  other  time,  but  now  her  heart  was  too 
heavy.  The  doctor  did  not  perceive  her  growing  agitation,  how- 
ever, and  pushed  the  matter  still  further. 

"  Quite  romantic  !  imminent  danger  !  providential  rescue  ! 
tete-a-tete  walk  home,  carefully  avoiding  the  old  doctor,  who 
might  prove  an  interruption!  —  I  understand  !  " 

Poor  Gertrude,  blushing  scarlet  and  pitiably  distressed,  tried  to 
offer  some  explanation,  and  stammered  out,  with  a  faltering  voicej 
that  she  did  not  notice  —  she  did  n't  remember. 

Ellen  Gryseworth  gave  her  a  scrutinizing  glance,  —  Emily,  an 
anxious  one,  —  and  Netta,  half-pitying  half-enjoying  her  confu- 
Bion,  dragged  her  off  towards  the  breakfast-hall,  saying,  "  Neve? 
mind,  Gertrude;  it 's  no  such  dreadful  thing,  after  all." 

She  made  a  pretence  of  eating  breakfast,  but  could  not  conceal 


378 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK 


her  want  of  appetite,  and  was  glad,  when  Ernily  had  finii^hed  hei 
light  repat  fc,  to  accompany  her  to  their  own  room,  where,  after 
relating  circumstantially  her  escape  from  accident,  and  Mr.  Phil 
lips'  agency  in  that  escape,  she  was  permitted  by  her  apparently 
satisfied  hearer  to  sit  down  quietly  and  read  aloud  to  her  in  a 
book  lent  them  by  that  gentleman,  to  whom,  however,  owing  to 
unfriendly  fortune,  no  opportunity  had  ever  yet  occurred  of 
introducing  Emily. 

The  whole  morning  passed  away,  and  nothing  was  heard  from 
Willie.  Every  time  a  servant  passed  through  the  entry,  Ger- 
trude was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation ;  and  on  occasion  of  a  tap 
at  the  door,  such  as  occurred  several  times  before  dinner,  she 
trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  lift  the  latch.  There  was  no 
summons  to  the  parlor,  however,  and  by  noon  the  feverish  excite- 
ment of  alternate  expectation  and  disappointment  had  brought  a 
deep  flush  into  her  face,  and  she  experienced,  what  was  very 
unusual,  symptoms  of  a  severe  headache.  Conscious,  however, 
of  the  wrong  construction  which  would  be  sure  to  be  put  upon 
her  conduct,  if,  upon  any  plea  whatever,  she  on  this  day  absented 
herself  from  the  dinner-table,  she  made  the  effort  to  dress  with 
as  much  care  as  usual ;  and,  as  she  passed  up  the  hall  to  her  scat, 
it  was  not  strange  that,  though  suffering  herself,  the  rich  glow 
that  mantled  her  cheeks,  and  the  brilliancy  which  excitement  had 
given  to  her  dark  eyes,  attracted  the  notice  of  others  beside  Mr. 
Phillips,  who,  seated  at  some  distance,  continued,  during  the 
Bhorfc  time  that  he  remained  at  the  table,  to  observe  her  uttea 
tiTeiy. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


O'er  ihe  wrung  heart,  from  midnight's  breathless  iky. 
Lone  looks  the  pity  of  the  Eternal  Eye. 

New  Timon. 

"WiiEN  Gertrude  went  to  her  room  after  dinner,  which  she  did 
soon  as  she  had  seen  Emily  comfortably  established  in  the 
drawing-room  in  conversation  with  Madam  Gryseworth,  she 
found  there  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  the  choicest  flowers,  which 
the  chamber-maid  assured  her  she  had  been  commissioned  to 
deliver  to  herself  She  rightly  imagined  the  source  from  whence 
they  came,  divined  at  once  the.  motives  of  kindness  and  sympathy 
which  had  prompted  the  donor  of  so  sweet  and  acceptable  a  gift, 
and  felt  that,  if  she  must  accept  pity  from  any  quarter,  Mr.  Phil- 
lips was  one  from  whom  she  could  more  easily  bear  to  receive  it 
than  from  almost  any  other. 

Notwithstanding  Netta's  intimations,  she  did  not  for  a  moment 
suspect  that  any  other  motives  than  those  of  kindness  and  com- 
passion had  instigated  the  offering  of  the  beautiful  flowers.  Nor 
had  she  reason  to  do  so ;  Mr.  Phillips'  manner  towards  her  was 
rather  fatherly  than  lover-like,  and  though  she  began  to  lock 
upon  him  as  a  valuable  friend,  that  was  the  only  light  in  which 
she  had  ever  thought  cf  viewing  him,  or  believed  that  he  ever 
regarded  her.  She  placed  the  flowers  in  water,  returned  to 
the  parlor,  and  constrained  herself  to  talk  on  indiff'erent  subjects, 
until  she  was  happily  relieved  by  the  breaking  up  of  their  circle,, 
part  to  ride  on  horseback,  part  to  take  a  drive,  and  the  rest  a 
nap.  Among  these  last  was  Gertrude,  who  availed  herself  of 
her  headache  a%  an  excuse  to  Emily  for  this  unwonted  ^*iidLiigem?f 
But  she  couli  not  sleep,  and  the  day  wore  wearily  on. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTILK. 


Evening  came  at  last,  and  with  it  an  urgent  invitation  to  Uei- 
tfude  to  accompany  Dr.  Gryseworth,  his  daughters,  and  the 
Petrancourts,  to  a  concert  to  be  given  at  the  United  States  Hotel. 
This  she  declined  doing,  and  persisted  in  her  refusal,  in  spite  of 
every  endeavor  to  shake  her  resolution.  She  felt  that  it  would 
be  impossibli  for  her  to  undergo  another  such  encounter  as  that 
of  the  morning,  —  she  should  be  sure  to  betray  herself;  and 
now  that  the  whole  day  had  passed,  and  Willie  had  made  no 
attempt  to  se.e  her,  she  felt  that  she  would  not,  for  the  world, 
put  herself  in  his  way,  and  run  the  risk  of  being  discoV' 
ored  and  recognized  by  him  in  a  crowded  concert-room.  No, — 
she  would  wait;  she  should  see  him  soon,  at  the  latest,  and 
under  the  present  circumstances  she  should  not  know  how  to 
meet  him ;  she  would  preserve  her  incognito  a  little  longer. 

So  they  all  went  without  her,  and  many  others  from  their  hotel ; 
and  the  parlor,  being  half-deserted,  was  very  quiet,  —  a  great  relief 
to  Gertrude's  aching  head  and  troubled  mind.  Later  in  the  even- 
ing, an  elderly  m.an,  a  clergyman,  had  been  introduced  to  Emily, 
and  was  talking  with  her ;  Madam  Gryseworth  and  Dr.  Jeremy 
were  entertaining  each  other,  Mrs.  Jeremy  was  nodding,  and  Ger- 
trude, believing  that  she  should  not  be  missed,  was  gliding  out  of 
the  room  to  go  and  sit  a  while  by  herself  in  the  moonlight,  when 
she  met  Mr.  Phillips  in  the  hall. 

"  What  are  you  here  all  alone  for  ?  "  asked  he.  "  Why  did  n't 
you  go  to  the  concert  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  headache." 

"  I  saw  you  had,  at  dinner.    Is  it  no  better  ?  " 
"  No.    I  believe  not." 

"Come  and  walk  with  me  on  the  piazza  a  little  while.  It  will 
do  you  good." 

She  ^ent ;  and  he  talked  very  entertainingly  to  her,  told  her 
a  great  many  amusing  anecdotes,  succeeded  in  making  her  smile 
and  even  laugh,  and  seemed  very  much  pleased  at  having  done 
BO.  He  related  many  amusing  things  he  had  seen  and  heard 
'Bince  he  had  been  staying  at  Saratoga  in  the  character  of  a  spec- 
tator, and  ended  by  asking  her  if  she  did  n't  think  it  was  a  heart* 
less  show. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


38^ 


The  question  took  Gertrude  bj  surprise.  Sne  asked  his  mean- 
ing. 

"  Don't  you  think  there  is  something  very  ridiculous  m  so  many 
thousand  people  coming  here  to  enjoy  themselves  ?  " 

"  I  don  t  know,"  answered  Gertrude ;  "  but  it  has  not  seemed 
so  to  me.  I  think  it 's  an  excellent  thing  for  those  who  do  enjoy 
themselves." 

"  And  how  many  do  ?  " 

"  The  greater  part,  I  suppose." 

*•  Pshaw  !  no,  they  don't  More  than  half  go  away  miserable, 
and  nearly  all  the  rest  dissatisfied." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Now,  I  thought  the  charm  of  the  place 
was  seeing  so  many  happy  faces  ;  they  have  nearly  all  looked 
happy  to  me." 

"  0,  that 's  all  on  the  surface,  and,  if  you  '11  notice,  those  who 
look  happy  one  day  are  wretched  enough  the  next.  Yours  was 
one  of  the  happy  faces  yesterday,  but  it  is  n't  to-day,  my  poor 
child." 

Then,  perceiving  that  his  remark  caused  the  hand  which  rested 
on  his  arm  to  tremble,  while  the  eyes  which  had  been  attentively 
raised  to  his  suddenly  fell,  and  hid  themselves  under  their  long 
lashes,  he  continued.  "  However,  we  will  trust  soon  to  see  it  as 
brioht  as  ever.  But  they  should  not  have  brought  you  here. 
Catskill  Mountain  was  a  fitter  place  for  your  lively  imagination 
and  reflecting  mind ;  a  sensitive  nature  should  not  be  exposed  to 
all  the  shafts  of  malice,  envy  and  ill-will,  it  is  sure  to  encounter 
in  one  of  these  crowded  resorts  of  selfish,  base  and  cruel  hu- 
manity." 

"  0 !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  at  once  comprehending  that  Mr. 
Phillips  suspected  her  to  be  smarting  under  some  neglect,  feeling 
of  wounded  pride,  or,  perhaps,  serious  injury;  "you  speak 
harshly;  all  are  not  selfish,  all  are  not  unkind." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  young,  and  full  of  faith ;  trust  whom  you  caa, 
and  as  long  as  you  can.    I  trust  '^/i  cymP 

"  No  Dne  !  Is  there  none,  then  in  the  whol'  world  whoia  yon 
love  and  confi  ie  in  \ 


882 


THE  LABTPLIGHTE^. 


•*  Scarcely  ^ertiinlj  not  more  than  one.  TVTiom  should  1 
trust  ?  " 

"The  g)0(l  the  pure,  the  truly  great." 

*'  And  who  are  they  ?  How  shall  we  distinguish  them  ?  I  (ell 
you,  my  young  friend,  that  in  my  experience  —  and  it  has  been 
rich,  ay,  very  rich," — and  he  set  his  teeth  and  spoke  with  bitter- 
ness,—  "the  so-called  good,  the  honorable,  the  upright  man,  has 
proved  but  the  varnished  hypocrite,  the  highly-Snished  and  polished 
sinner.  Yes,"  continued  he,  his  voice  growing  deeper,  his  manner 
more  excited  as  he  spoke,  "  I  can  think  of  one,  a  respectable  man, 
one  of  your^zr^^  men,  yes,  and  a  church-member,  whose  hardness, 
injustice  and  cruelty,  made  my  life  what  it  has  been  —  a  desert,  a 
blank,  or  worse  than  that ;  and  I  can  think  of  another,  an  old, 
rough,  intemperate  sailor,  over  whose  head  a  day  never  passed 
that  he  did  not  take  the  name  of  his  God  in  vain,  who  had,  never- 
theless, at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  a  drop  of  such  pure,  unsullied 
essence  of  virtue  as  could  not  be  distilled  from  the  souls  of  ten 
thousand  of  your  polished  rogues.  Which,  then,  shall  I  trust, 
—the  good,  religious  men,  or  the  low,  profane  and  abject  ones?" 

•  Trust  in  goodness,  wherever  it  be  found,"  answered  Gertrude. 
'* But,  0,  trust  all,  rather  than  none,-^ 

"  Your  world,  your  religion,  draws  a  closer  line." 

"Call  it  not  77? 2/ world,  or  7772/ religion,"  said  Gertrude.  "1 
know  of  no  such  line.  I  know  of  no  religion  but  that  of  the  heart 
Christ  died  for  us  all  alike,  and,  since  few  souls  arc  so  sunk  in  sin 
that  they  do  not  retain  some  spark  of  virtue  and  truth,  who  shall 
say  in  how  many  a  light  will  at  last  spring  up,  by  aid  of  which 
they  may  find  their  way  to  God  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  good  child,  and  full  of  hope  and  charity,"  said  Mr. 
Phillips,  pressing  her  arm  closely  to  his  side.  "  I  will  try  and 
have  faith  in  you.  But,  see !  our  friends  have  returned  from  the 
concert.    Let  us  go  and  rpeet  them." 

They  had  had  a  delightful  lime;  Alboni  had  excelled  herself 
and  they  vere  so  sorry  Gertrude  did  not  go.  "  But  perhaps." 
whispered  Netta,  "  you  have  enjoyed  yourself  more  at  home..' 
She  half  repentel  of  the  sly  intimation,  even  before  the  words 
lad  escaped  her ;  for  Gertrude,  as  she  stood  lean'jig  unconcernedly 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


383 


upon  Mr.  Phillips'  arm,  looked  so  innocent  of  3onfusi(  o  or  em- 
barrassment, that  her  very  manner  refuted  Nett:.'s  suspicions. 

Miss  Clinton  was  there,"  continued  Netta, and  looked  beau- 
tifully. She  had  a  crowd  of  gentlemen  about  her ;  but  did  n't 
you  notice  (and  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Petnincourt)  that  one 
seemed  to  meet  with  such  marked  favor  that  I  wonder  the  rest 
were  not  discouraged.  I  mean  that  tall,  handsome  young  man 
who  waited  upon  her  into  the  hall,  and  went  out  soon  after.  Sh 
devoted  herself  to  him  while  he  stayed." 

"  It  was  the  same  one,  was  it  not,"  asked  Ellen,  "  who  after- 
wards, towards  the  close  of  the  concert,  came  in  and  iStood  leaning 
against  the  wall  for  some  minutes  ?  " 

Yes,"  answered  Netta ;  "but  he  only  waited  for  Alboni  tc 
(inish  singing,  and  then,  approaching  Miss  Clinton,  leaned  over  and 
whispered  a  word  or  two  in  her  ear.  After  that  she  got  up,  left 
her  seat,  and  they  both  went  off,  rather  to  the  mortification  of  thft 
other  gentlemen.  I  noticed  them  pass  by  the  window  where  we 
sat,  and  walk  across  the  grounds  together." 

"  Yes,  just  in  the  midst  of  that  beautiful  piece  from  Lucia," 
said  Ellen.   "  How  could  they  go  away  ?  " 

"  0,  it  is  not  strange,  under  the  circumstances,"  said  Mr. 
Petrancourtj  "  that  Miss  Clinton  should  prefer  a  walk  with  Mr. 
Sullivan  to  the  best  music  in  the  world." 

Why  ?  "  asked  Netta.  "  Is  he  very  agreeable  ?  Is  he  sup 
posed  to  be  the  favored  one  ?  " 

*'  I  should  think  there  was  no  doubt  of  it,"  answered  Mr 
Petrancourt.  I  believe  it  is  generally  thought  to  be  an  engage- 
ment. He  was  in  Paris  with  them  during  the  spring,  and  they 
all  came  home  in  the  same  steamer.  Everybody  knows  it  is  the 
wish  of  Mr.  Clinton's  heart,  and  Miss  Isabel  makes  no  secret  ot 
her  prefereno3." 

"  O,  certainly,"  interposed  Mrs  Petrancourt ;  "  it  is  an  under- 
stood thing.  I  heard  it  spoken  of  by  two  or  three  pcj-sons  this 
evening." 

What  became  of  Gertrude,  all  this  time  ?  Could  she,  who  for 
»ix  years  had  nursed  the  fond  idea  that  to  Willie  she  was  and 


384 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


should  still  continue  to  be,  all  in  all,  —  could  she  stand  patiently 
by,  and  hear  him  thus  disposed  of  and  given  to  another  ^ 

She  did  do  it ;  not  consciously,  however,  for  her  head  swan 
round,  and  she  would  have  fallen  but  for  the  firm  support  of  Mr 
Phillips,  who  held  her  arm  so  tightly  that  though  he  ff^lt,  the 
rest  could  not  see,  how  she  trembled.  Fortunately,  too,  none  bui 
he  thought  of  noticing  her  blanched  face ;  and,  as  she  stood  some- 
what in  the  shadow,  he  alone,  fully  aware  of  her  agitation,  was 
watching  the  strained  and  eager  eyes,  the  parted  and  rigid  lips, 
the  death-like  pallor  of  her  countenance. 

Standing  there  with  her  heart  beating  like  a  heavy  drum,  and 
almost  believing  herself  in  a  horrid  dream,  she  listened  attentively, 
heard  and  comprehended  every  word.  She  could  not,  however 
have  spoken  or  moved  for  her  life,  and  in  an  instant  more  acci- 
dent might  have  betrayed  her  excited  and  almost  alarming  condi- 
tion. But  Mr.  Phillips  acted,  spoke  and  moved /or  her,  and  she 
was  spared  an  exposure  from  which  her  delicate  and  sensitive 
spirit  would  have  shrunk  indeed. 

"  Mr.  Sullivan  !  "  said  he.  "  Ah !  a  fine  fellow  1  know  him. 
Miss  Gertrude,  I  must  tell  you  an  anecdote  about  that  young 
man ;  "  and,  moving  forward  in  the  direction  in  which  they  had 
been  walking  when  they  met  the  party  from  the  concert,  he  made 
as  if  they  were  still  intending  to  prolong  their  promenade.  —  a 
promenade,  however,  in  which  he  was  the  only  walker,  for  Ger- 
trude was  literally  borne  upon  his  arm,  until  the  rest  of  the 
company,  who  started  at  the  same  moment  for  the  parlor,  were 
hid  within  its  shelter,  and  he  and  his  companion  were  left  the  sole 
occupants  of  that  portion  of  the  piazza. 

Until  then  he  proceeded  with  his  story,  and  went  so  far  as  to 
relate  that  he  and  Mr.  Sullivan  were,  a  few  years  previous,  trav- 
elling together  across  an  Arabian  desert,  when  the  latter  proved 
of  signal  service  in  saving  him  from  a  sudden  attack  by  a  wandering 
tribe  of  Bedouins.  By  the  time  he  had  thus  opened  his  narration, 
he  perceived  that  all  danger  of  observation  was  passed,  and  hesitat- 
ed not  to  stop  abruptly,  and,  without  ceremony  or  apology,  place 
her  in  an  arm-chair  which  stood  conveniently  near     "  Sit  herf 


imE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


385 


said  he,  "  while  I  go  and  bring  you  a  glass  of  water."  He  fchen 
wrapped  her  mantle  tightly  about  her,  and  walked  quickly  away. 

0,  how  Gertrude  thanked  him  in  her  heart  for  thus  consider- 
ately leaving  her,  and  giving  her  time  to  recover  herself  I  It  wa? 
(he  most  judicious  thing  he  could  have  dnne,  and  the  kindest 
He  saw  that  she  would  not  faint,  and  knew  that  left  alone  she 
would  soon  rally  her  powers;  perhaps  be  deceived  by  the  idea 
that  even  he  was  only  half  aware  of  her  agitation,  and  wholly 
ignorant  of  Its  cause. 

He  was  gone  some  minutes,  and  when  he  returned  she  was  per- 
fectly calm.  She  tasted  the  water,  but  he  did  not  urge  her  to 
drink  it ;  he  knew  she  did  not  require  it.  "  I  have  kept  you  out 
too  long,"  said  he ;  "  come,  you  had  better  go  in  now." 

She  rose ;  he  put  her  arm  once  more  through  his,  guided  her 
feeble  steps  to  a  window  which  opened  into  hers  and  Emil}  s 
room,  and  then,  pausing  a  moment,  said,  in  a  meaning  tone,  at  the 
same  time  enforcing  his  words  by  the  fixed  glance  of  his  piercing 
eye,  "  You  exhort  me.  Miss  Gertrude,  to  have  faith  in  every- 
body ;  but  I  bid  you,  all  inexperienced  as  you  are,  to  beware  lest 
you  believe  too  much.  Where  you  have  good  foundation  for  con- 
fidence, abide  by  it,  if  you  can,  firmly  and  bravely;  but  trust 
nothing  which  you  have  not  fairly  tested,  and,  especially,  rest  as- 
sured that  the  idle  gossip  of  a  place  like  this  is  utterly  unworthy 
of  credit.  Good-night." 

What  an  utter  revulsion  of  feeling  these  words  occasioned  Ger- 
trude !  They  came  to  her  with  all  the  force  of  a  prophecy,  and 
struck  deep  into  her  heart.  Was  there  not  wisdom  in  the  stran- 
ger's counsel  ?  It  was  true,  she  thought,  that  he  spoke  merely 
such  simple  axioms  as  a  long  experience  of  the  world  might  dic- 
tate ;  but  how  forcible,  in  her  case,  was  their  application  !  Had 
not  she,  blindly  yielding  to  her  gloomy  presentiments  and  fears, 
been  willing  to  lend  a  too  read/  ear  to  the  whisperings  of  her  own 
jealous  imagination,  and  a  too  credulous  one  to  the  idle  reports  of 
ethers,  while  in  reality  she  had  proved  a  traitor  to  a  more  noble 
trust  ?  Who,  during  the  many  years  she  had  known  him,  could 
have  proved  himself  more  worthy  of  confidence  than  Willie  ^ 
Had  he  not,  from  his  boyhood,  been  exemplary  in  e^ery  virtue^ 
83 


886 


THE  LAJIPLI'iHTER. 


Buperior  to  every  meanness  and  every  forix  of  v»cc  ^  llarl  h« 
not  in  nis  early  youth  forsaken  all  that  he  held  most  deir,  to  toil 
and  labor  beneath  an  Indian  sun,  that  he  might  provide  comforta 
and  luxuries  for  thcee  whose  support  he  eagerly  took  upon  him- 
self? Had  he  not  ever  proved  honorable,  high-minded,  sincei'e 
and  warm  of  heart  ?  Above  all,  had  he  not  been  imbued  from 
hi£j  infancy  with  the  highet.^  and  purest  of  Christian  principles? 

He  had,  indeed,  been  all  this ;  and  while  Gertrude  called  it  to 
mind,  and  dwelt  upon  each  phase  of  his  consistent  course  she 
could  not  fail  to  remember,  too,  that  "Willie,  whether  as  the  gen- 
erous, kind-hearted  boy,  the  adventurous,  energetic  youth,  the 
successful,  respected,  yet  sorrow-tried  man,  had  ever  manifested 
towards  herself  the  same  deep,  ardent,  enthusiastic  attachment. 
The  love  which  he  had  shown  for  her  in  her  childhood,  and  during 
that  period  when,  though  still  a  child,  she  labored  under  the  full- 
grown  care  and  sorrow  entailed  upon  her  by  Uncle  True's  sickness 
and  death,  had  seemed  to  grow  and  deepen  in  every  successive  day, 
month  and  year,  of  their  separation. 

During  their  long  and  regular  correspondence,  no  letter  had 
come  from  Willie  that  did  not  breathe  the  same  spirit  of  devoted 
affection  for  Gertrude,  —  an  exclusive  affection,  in  which  there 
could  be  no  rivalship.  All  his  thoughts  of  home  and  future 
happy  days  were  inseparably  associated  with  her  ;  and  although 
Mrs.  Sullivan,  with  that  instinctive  reserve  which  was  one  of  her 
characteristics,  never  broached  the  subject  to  Gertrude,  her  whole 
treatment  of  the  latter  sufficiently  evinced  that  to  her  mind  the 
event  of  her  future  union  with  her  son  was  a  thinfr  certain.  The 
bold  declaration  on  Willie's  part,  conveyed  in  the  letter  received 
by  Gertrude  soon  after  his  mother's  death,  that  his  hopes,  hia 
prayers,  his  labors,  were  now  all  for  her,  was  not  a  more  convinc- 
ing proof  of  the  tender  light  in  which  he  regarded  her  than  a^l 
their  previous  intercourse  had  been. 

Should  Gertrude,  then,  distrust  him  ?  Should  she  at  once  set 
Skside  all  past  evidences  of  his  worth,  and  give  ready  credence 
to  his  prompt  desertion  of  his  early  friend  ?  No  !  she  resolved 
immediately  to  banish  the  unworthy  thought ,  to  cherish  still  the 
firm  belief  that  some  explanation  would  shortly  offer  itself,  whicL 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


387 


woald  yet  satisfy  ber  aching  heart.  Until  then,  she  woukl  trust 
aim ;  bravely  and  firmly  too  would  she  trust,  for  her  confidencQ 
was  not  without  foundation. 

As  she  mado  this  heroic  resolve,  she  lifted  up  her  drooping 
head  and  gazed  out  into  the  night.  The  moon  had  gone  down, 
and  the  sky  was  studded  with  stars,  bright,  clear  and  beautiful. 
Gertrude  loved  a  starry  night.  It  invigorated  and  strengthened 
her ;  and  now,  as  she  looked  up,  directly  above  her  head  stood 
the  star  she  so  much  loved,  —  the  star  which  she  had  on^e  fondly 
fancied  it  was  Uncle  True's  blessed  privilege  to  light  for  her. 
And,  as  in  times  long  past  these  heavenly  lights  had  spoken  of 
comfort  to  her  soul,  she  seemed  now  to  hear  ringing  in  her  ears 
the  familiar  saying  of  the  dear  old  man,  "  Cheer  up,  birdie,  for 
I 'm  of  the  'pinion 't  will  all  come  out  right  at  last." 

Gertrude  continued  through  the  short  remainder  of  the  evening 
in  an  elevated  frame  of  mind,  which  might  almost  be  termed 
joyful ;  and,  thus  sustained,  she  was  able  to  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room  for  Emily,  say  good-night  to  her  friends  with  a 
cheerful  voice,  and  before  midnight  she  sought  her  pillow  and 
went  quietly  to  sleep. 

This  composed  state  of  mind,  however,  was  partly  the  result  of 
strong  excitement,  and  therefore  could  not  last.  The  next  morn- 
ing found  her  once  more  yielding  to  depressed  spirits,  and  the 
effort  which  she  made  to  rise,  dress  and  go  to  breakfast,  was 
almost  mechanical.  She  excused  herself  from  her  customary 
walk  with  the  doctor,  for  to  that  she  felt  quite  unequal.  Her 
first  wish  was  to  leave  Saratoga  ;  she  longed  to  go  home,  to  be  in 
a  quiet  place,  where  so  many  eyes  would  not  be  upon  her ;  and 
when  the  doctor  came  in  with  the  letters  which  had  arrived  by 
the  early  mail,  she  looked  at  them  so  eagerly  that  he  observed  it^ 
and  said,  smilingly,  "  None  for  you,  Gerty ;  but  one  for  EmJy, 
which  is  the  next  best  thing,  I  suppose." 

To  Gertrude  this  was  the  very  best  thing,  for  it  was  jl  long- 
expected  letter  from  Mr.  Graham,  which  would  probably  mention 
the  time  of  his  return  from  abroad,  and  consequently  determine 
tlie  continuance  of  her  own  and  Emily's  visit  at  Saratoga. 

1 :)  their  astoLishment,  he  had  already  arrived  in  New  Ycrkj 


888 


THE  LAMPLxGHTER. 


and  da-.red  them  to  join  him  there  the  following  da>.  Gv3rtTud6 
could  hardly  conceal  her  satisfaction,  which  was,  however,  if 
noticed  by  her  friends,  merely  attributed  to  the  pleasure  she 
probably  felt  at  the  return  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham ;  and  EmiW, 
really  delighud  at  the  ])rospect  of  so  soon  meeting  her  father,  to 
whom  she  was  fondly  attached,  was  eager  to  commence  prepar- 
ations for  leaving. 

They  therefore  retired  to  their  own  room,  and  Gertrude's  time 
until  dinner  was  fully  occupied  in  the  business  of  packing. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  the  previous  day  she  had  been  anxlouflj 
hoping  that  Willie  would  make  his  appearance  at  their  hotel ; 
now,  on  the  contrary,  she  as  earnestly  dreaded  such  an  event. 
To  meet  him  in  so  public  a  manner  too  as  must  here  be  inevitable, 
would,  under  her  present  state  of  feelings,  be  insupportable  ;  she 
would  infinitely  prefer  to  be  in  Boston  when  he  should  first  see 
and  recognize  her ;  and,  if  she  tormented  herself  yesterday  with 
the  fear  that  he  would  not  come,  the  dread  that  he  might  do  so 
was  a  still  greater  cause  of  distress  to  her  to-day. 

She  was  therefore  relieved  when,  after  dinner,  Mr.  Phillips 
kindly  proposed  a  drive  to  the  lake.  Dr.  Gryseworth  and  one  of 
his  daughters  had,  he  assured  Gertrude,  agreed  to  take  seats  in  a 
carriage  which  he  had  provided,  and  he  hoped  she  would  not 
refuse  to  occupy  the  fourth.  As  it  was  an  hour  when  Emily 
would  not  require  her  presence,  and  she  would  thus  be  sure  to 
avoid  Willie,  she  gladly  consented  to  the  arrangement. 

They  had  been  at  the  lake  nearly  an  hour.  Dr.  Grysewcrth 
and  his  daughter  Ellen  had  been  persuaded  by  a  party  whom 
they  met  there  to  engage  in  bowling.  Mr.  Phillips  and  Gertrud:) 
had  declined  taking  part,  but  stood  for  some  time  looking  on. 
The  day,  however,  being  warm,  and  the  air  in  the  building 
uncomfortably  close,  they  had  gone  outside  and  seated  thom- 
seives  on  a  bench  at  a  little  distance,  to  wait  until  the  game  was 
concluded.  As  they  sat  thus,  surveying  the  beautiful  sheet  of 
water,  now  rosy  red  with  the  rays  of  the  descending  sun,  a  couple 
approached  and  took  up  a  position  near  them.  Mr.  Phillips  was 
quite  screened  from  their  observation  by  the  trunk  of  a  huga 
iree,  and  Gertrude  sufficiently  so  to  be  unnoticed,  thougk  the 


TUE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


389 


sudden  paleness  which  overspread  her  face  as  they  drew  near 
was  so  maiked  as  clearly  to  indicate  that  she  saw  and  recog- 
nized William  Sullivan  and  Isabel  Chnton.  The  words  which 
they  spoke,  also,  fell  distinctly  upon  her  ear. 

"  Shall  I,  then,  be  so  much  missed  ?  asked  Isabel,  looking 
earnestly  in  the  face  of  her  companion,  who,  with  a  serious  air, 
was  gazing  out  upon  the  water. 

"  Missed  ! "  replied  he,  turning  towards  her,  and  speaking  in 
a  slightly  reproachful  voice.    "  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ? 
Who  can  supply  your  place  ?  " 
But  it  will  be  only  two  days," 

"A  short  time,  under  ordinary  circumstances,"  said  Willie, 
*  but  an  eternity  — "  He  here  checked  himself,  and  made  a 
.udden  motion  to  proceed  on  their  walk. 

Isabel  followed  him,  saying,  But  yoti  will  wait  here  until  m^ 
return  ?  " 

He  again  turned  to  reply,  and  this  tune  the  reproachful  lool 
which  overspread  his  features  was  visible  to  Gertrude,  as  he  said, 
with  great  earnestness,  "  Certainly  ;  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

The  strange,  fixed,  unnatural  expression  which  took  possessioh 
of  Gertrude's  countenance  as  she  listened  to  this  conversation,  it, 
her  so  deeply  fraught  with  meaning,  was  fearful  to  witness. 

"  Gertrude !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Phillips,  aftei  watching  her  for 
a  moment.  "  Gertrude,  for  heaven's  sake  do  not  look  so  !  Speak, 
Gertrude  !    AVhat  is  the  matter  ?  " 

But  she  did  not  turn  her  eyes,  did  not  move  a  feature  of  that 
stony  face  ;  she  evidently  did  not  hear  him.  He  took  her  hand. 
It  was  cold  as  marble.  His  face  now  wore  an  appearance  of 
distress  almost  equal  to  her  own  ;  —  great  tears  rushed  to  his 
eyes,  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  Once  he  stretched  forth  his 
arms,  as  if  he  would  gladly  clasp  her  to  his  bosom  and  i:;oothe 
ber  like  a  little  child,  but  with  evident  effort  he  repressed  the 
emotion.  "  Gertrude,"  said  he,  at  length,  leaning  forward  and 
fixing  his  eyes  full  upon  hers,  "  what  have  these  people  done  to 
you  ?  Why  do  you  care  for  them  ?  If  that  yourg  nan  has  injured 
you,  —  the  rascal !  — he  shall  answer  for  it ;  "  and  he  sprang 
Vis  feet. 

33* 


^90 


TECE  LaMPIICvHTER. 


The  w.\"rds  and  tlie  action  brought  Gertrude  to  nerself.  *'ho 
no  ! "  sai  1  she,  he  is  not  that.  I  am  better  now.  Do  noi 
ppeak  of  it ;  don't  tell,"  and  she  looked  anxiouslj-  in  the  direction 
of  the  bowling-allej.  "  I  am  a  great  deal  better."  And,  to  his 
astonishment,  —  for  the  fearful,  rigid  look  upon  her  face  had 
frightened  him,  — -  she  rose  with  perfect  composurf^,  and  proposed 
going  home. 

He  accompanied  her  silently,  and  before  they  were  half-way 
up  the  hill  where  they  had  left  the  carriage,  they  were  over 
taken  by  the  rest  of  their  party,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  were 
driving  towards  Saratoga. 

During  the  whole  drive  and  the  evening  which  followed  Ger- 
trude preserved  this  same  rigid,  unnatural  composure.  Once  or 
twice  before  they  reached  the  hotel  Dr.  Gryseworth  asked  her 
if  she  felt  ill,  and  Mr.  Phillips  turned  many  an  anxious  glance 
towards  her.  The  very  tones  of  her  voice  were  constrained,  —  so 
much  so  that  Emily,  on  her  reaching  the  house,  inquired, at  once, 
"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  child  ?  " 

But  she  declared  herself  quite  well,  and  went  through  all  the 
duties  and  proprieties  of  the  evening,  bidding  farewell  to  many 
of  her  friends,  and  when  she  parted  from  the  Grysewortha 
arranging  to  see  them  again  in  the  morning. 

To  the  careless  eye,  Emily  was  the  more  troubled  of  the  two; 
for  Emily  could  not  be  deceived,  and  reflected  back,  in  her  whole 
demeanor,  the  better-concealed  sufferings  of  Gertrude,  Gertrude 
^either  knew  at  the  time,  nor  could  afterwards  recall,  one-half  of 
the  occurrences  of  cwat  evening.  She  never  could  understand 
w^hat  it  was  that  otrrr^ained  her,  and  enabled  her,  half  uncon- 
sciously, to  perform  her  part  in  them.  How  she  so  successfully 
concealed  the  misery  she  was  enduring  she  never  could  com- 
prehend or  explain.  She  remembered  it  only  as  if  it  had  all 
been  a  dream. 

Not  until  the  still  hours  of  the  night,  when  Emily  appeared 
to  bo  soundly  sleeping  by  her  side,  did  she  venture  for  an  instant 
to  loosen  the  iron  bands  of  restraint  which  she  had  imposed  upon 
herself;  but  then,  the  barrier  removed,  the  pent-up  torrent  of 
her  grirf  burst  fortk  without  checV  or  hindrance.    She  rose  from 


THE  lampl:3Hteii. 


391 


aer  oed,  and,  burying  hei  face  in  the  cushions  of  a  low  ^jouoh 
which  stood  near  the  window,  gave  herself  up  to  blessed  tears, 
.wcry  drop  of  which  was  a  relief  to  her  aching  soul.  Since  her 
early  childhood  she  had  never  indulged  so  long  and  unrestrained 
a  fit  of  weeping ;  and,  the  heaving  of  her  chest,  and  the  deep 
Bobs  she  uttered,  proved  the  depth  of  her  agony.  All  other  sor- 
rows had  found  her  in  a  great  degree  fortified  and  prepared, 
armed  with  religious  trust  and  encouraged  by  a  holy  hope  ;  but 
beneath  this  sudden  and  unlooked-for  blow  she  bent,  staggered 
and  shrunk,  as  the  sapling  of  a  summer's  growth  heaves  and 
trembles  beneath  the  wintry  blast. 

That  Willie  was  faithless  to  his  first  love  she  could  not  now 
feel  a  shadow  of  doubt ;  and  with  this  conviction  she  realized 
that  the  prop  and  stay  of  her  life  had  fallen.  Uncle  True  and 
Mrs.  Sullivan  were  both  her  benefactors,  and  Emily  was  still  a 
dear  and  steadfast  friend ;  but  all  of  these  had  been  more  or  less 
dependent  upon  Gertrude,  and,  although  she  could  ever  repose  in 
the  assurance  of  their  love,  two  had  long  before  they  passed 
3Lway  come  to  lean  wholly  upon  her  youthful  arm.,  and  the  other, 
the  last  one  left,  not  only  trusted  to  her  to  guide  her  uncertain 
Steps,  but  those  steps  were  evidently  now  tending  downwards  to 
the  grave. 

Upon  whom,  then,  should  Gertrude  lean  ?  To  whom  should  she 
look  as  tlie  stalf  of  her  young  and  inexperienced  life  ?  To  whom 
could  she,  with  confidence,  turn  for  counsel,  protection,  support 
and  love  ?  To  whom  but  Willie  ?  And  Willie  had  given  his 
heart  to  another,  —  and  Gertrude  would  soon  be  left  alone ! 

No  wonder,  then,  that  she  wept  as  the  broken-hearted  weep ; 
wept  until  the  fountain  of  her  tears  was  dry,  and  she  felt  herself 
^ick,  faint  and  exhausted.  And  now  she  rose,  approached  the 
window,  flung  back  from  her  forehead  the  heavy  folds  of  her  long 
hair,  leaned  out,  and  from  the  breath  of  the  cool  night-breeze 
drank  in  a  refreshing  influence.  Hor  soul  grew  calmer,  as,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  bright  lights  which  shone  so  sweetly  and 
calmly  iown,  she  seemed  to  commune  with  holy  things.  Once 
more  th^y  seemed  to  compassionate  her,  and,  as  in  tke  days  of 
her  lone,  7  childhood,  to  whi&per,  ^  Gerty  !  —  Gerty  !  —  poor  Uttl« 
^ierty!" 


'692 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEIL 


Softened  and  touched  by  their  pitying  glance,  she  gradually 
Bunk  upon  her  knees  ;  her  uplifted  face,  her  clasped  hands,  the 
Bweet  expression  of  resignation  now  gradually  creeping  over  her 
countenance,  all  gave  evidence  that,  as  on  the  occasion  of  he: 
first  silent  prayer  to  the  then  unknown  God,  her  now  enlightened 
soul  was  holding  deep  communion  with  its  Maker,  and  once  moro 
her  spirit  w^»fl  uttering  the  simple  words,  "  Here  am  I,  Lord !  " 

O,  blessed  religion  which  can  sustain  the  heart  in  such  an  hour 
as  this !  0,  blessed  faith  and  trust,  which,  when  earthly  support 
fails  us,  and  our  strongest  earthly  stay  proves  but  a  rope  of  sand, 
lifts  the  soul  above  all  other  need,  and  clasps  it  to  the  bosom  of  its 
God! 

And  now  a  gentle  hand  is  laid  upon  her  head.  She  turns  and 
sees  Emily,  whom  she  had  believed  to  be  asleep,  but  from  whom 
anxiety  had  effectually  banished  slumber,  and  who,  with  fears 
redoubled  by  the  sobs  which  Gertrude  could  not  wholly  repress, 
is  standing  by  her  side. 

Gertrude,"  said  she,  in  a  grieved  tone,  "  are  you  in  trouble, 
and  did  you  seek  to  hide  it  from  me  ?  Do  not  turn  fi^om  me, 
Gertrude!"  and,  throwing  her  arms  around  her, she  drew  her  head 
close  to  her  bosom,  and  whispered,  Tell  me  all,  my  darling ! 
What  is  the  matter  with  my  poor  child  ?  " 

And  Gertrude  unburdened  her  heart  to  Emily,  disclosing  to 
her  attentive  ear  the  confession  of  the  only  secret  she  had  ever 
kept  from  her ;  and  Emily  wept  as  she  listened,  and  when  Ger- 
trude had  finished  she  pressed  her  again  and  again  to  her  heart, 
exclaiming,  as  she  did  so,  with  an  excitement  of  tone  and  manner 
which  Gertrude  had  never  before  witnessed  in  the  usually  calm 
and  placid  blind  girl,  "  Strange,  strange,  that  you,  too.  shc  ild 
be  thus  doomed  !  0,  Gertrude,  my  darling,  we  may  well  weep 
together;  but  still,  believe  me,  your  sorrow  is  far  less  bitter  than 
mine !  " 

And  then,  in  the  darkness  of  that  midnight  hour  was  Gertrude  a 
confidence  rewarded  by  the  revelation  of  that  tale  of  grief  and 
woe  which  twenty  years  before  had  blighted  Emily's  youth^  and 
which,  notwithstanding  the  flight  of  time,  was  still  vivid  to  liei 
recollection,  casting  over  her  life  a  dark  shadow,  of  which  hei 
blindness  was  but  a  single  feature. 


CHAPTEE  XL. 


When,  lo  !  arrayed  in  robes  of  liglt, 

A  nymph  celestial  came  ; 
She  cleared  the  mists  that  dimmed  my  sfgfet— 

Religion  was  her  name. 
She  proved  the  chastisement  divine. 

And  bade  me  kiss  the  rod  ; 
She  taught  this  rebel  heart  of  mine 

Submission  to  its  God.  Hannah  Mobk 

"  I  WkS  younger  than  you,  Gertrude,''  said  she,  when  my  tn4 
came,  and  hardly  the  same  person  in  any  respect  that  I  have  be^^ 
since  you  first  knew  me.  You  are  aware,  perhaps,  that  my  niotK^i 
iied  when  I  was  too  young  to  retain  any  recollection  of  her;  b^i 
my  father  soon  married  again,  and  in  this  step-parent,  whom  J 
remember  with  as  much  tenderness  as  if  she  had  been  my  o\v» 
mother,  I  found  a  love  and  care  which  fully  compensated  for  my 
loss.  I  can  recall  her  now  as  she  looked  towaf  ds  the  latter  par* 
of  her  life,  —  a  tall,  delicate,  feeble  woman,  with  a  very  sweet, 
but  rather  sad  face.  She  was  a  widow  when  my  father  married 
her,  and  had  one  son,  who  became  at  once  my  sole  companion, 
the  partner  of  all  my  youthful  pleasures.  You  told  me,  m^ny 
years  ago,  that  I  could  not  imagine  how  much  you  loved  Wi.iie, 
and  I  was  then  on  the  point  of  confiding  to  you  a  part  of  my 
early  history,  and  convincing  you  that  my  own  experience  m'ght 
well  have  taught  me  how  to  understand  such  a  love ;  but  I 
checked  myself,  for  you  were  too  young  then  to  be  burdened  with 
the  knowledge  of  so  sad  a  story  as  mino,  and  I  kept  silent.  'Zlow 
dear  my  yoang  playmate  became  to  me,  no  words  can  express. 
The  office  which  each  filled,  the  influence  which  each  of  us  tdieit* 
<5d  upon  the  other,  was  such  as  to  create  mutual  dependence  for 


894 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


though  his  was  the  leading  spirit,  the  strong  and  determined  wik 
and  I  was  ever  submissive  tc  a  rule  which  to  my  easily-influeuced 
nature  was  never  irksome,  there  was  one  respect  in  which  my  bold 
young  protector  and  ruler  ever  looked  to  aie  for  aid  and  .^uj^port, 
It  was  to  act  as  mediator  between  him  and  my  father ;  for,  while 
the  boy  was  almost  an  idol  to  his  mother,  he  was  ever  treated 
•with  coldness  and  distrust  by  my  father,  who  never  understooa 
or  appreciated  his  many  noble  qualities,  but  seemed  always  to 
regard  him  with  an  eye  of  suspicion  and  dislike.  To  my  suppli 
eating  looks  and  entreating  words,  however,  he  ever  lent  a  willing 
ear,  and  all  my  eloquence  was  sure  to  be  at  the  service  of  my 
companion  when  he  had  a  favor  to  obtain  or  an  excuse  to  pleM. 

That  my  father's  sternness  towards  her  son  was  a  great  causa 
of  unhappiness  to  our  mother,  I  can  have  no  doubt ;  for  I  well 
remember  the  anxiety  with  which  she  strove  to  conceal  his  faults 
and  misdemeanors,  and  the  frequent  occasions  on  which  she  her- 
self instructed  me  how  to  propitiate  the  parent,  who,  fo^  my  sake, 
would  often  forgive  the  boy,  whose  bold,  adventurous,  independent 
disposition,  was  continually  bringing  him  into  collision  with  one 
of  whose  severity,  when  displeased,  you  have  yourself  had  some 
oppoi'tunity  to  judge.  My  step-mother  had  been  extremely  poor 
in  her  widowhood,  and  her  child,  having  inherited  nothing  which 
he  could  call  his  own,  was  wholly  dependent  upon  my  father's 
bounty.  This  wa§  a  stinging  cause  of  mortification  and  trial  to 
the  pride  of  which  even  as  a  boy  he^had  an  unusual  share ;  and 
often  have  I  seen  him  chafed  and  irritated  at  the  reception  of 
favors  which  he  well  understood  were  far  from  being  awarded  by 
a  paternal  hand  ;  my  father,  in  the  mean  time,  who  did  not  un- 
derstand this  feeling,  mentally  accusing  him  of  gross  ingratitude. 

"  As  long  as  our  mother  was  spared  to  us  we  lived  in  com- 
parative harmony ;  but  at  last,  when  I  was  just  sixteen  years 
old,  she  was  stricken  with  sudden  illness,  and  died.  Well  do  I 
remember,  the  last  night  of  her  life,  her  calling  me  to  the  bed- 
side, and  saying,  in  a  solemn  voice,  'Emily,  my  dying  prayer  is 
(hat  you  will  be  a  guardian-angel  to  my  boy  ! '  God  forgive 
aae,"  ejaculated  the  now  tearful  blind  girl,  *  if  I  have  beea  faitb 
e»B  tc  the  trust ! 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


395 


He  of  whom  I  am  telliiig  you  (for  Emily  carefully  forbore 
ro  mention  his  name)  was  then  about  eighteen.    He  had  lately 
become  a  clerk  in  my  father's  counting-room,  much  against  his 
will,  for  he  earnestly  desired  a  collegiate  education;  but  mj 
father  was  determined,  and,  at  his  mother's  and  my  persuasion, 
he  was  induced  to  submit.    My  step-mother's  death  knit  the  tie 
between  her  son  and  myself  more  closely  than  ever.    He  still 
continued  an  inmate  of  our  house,  and  we  passed  all  the  time 
that  he  could  be  spared  from  the  of&ce  in  the  enjoyment  of  each 
other's  society ;  for  my  father  was  much  from  home,  and,  when 
there,  usually  shut  himself  up  in  his  library,  leaving  us  to  enter- 
tain each  other.    I  was  then  a  school-girl,  fond  of  books,  and  an 
excellent  student.    How  often,  when  you  have  spoken  of  the  as- 
sistance Willie  was  to  you  in  your  studies,  have  a  been  reminded 
of  the  time  when  I,  too,  received  similar  encouragement  and  aid 
from  ray  own  youthful  companion  and  friend,  who  was  ever  ready 
to  exert  hand  and  brain  in  my  behalf!    We  were  not  invariably 
happy,  however.     Often  did  my  father's  face  weai  that  stern 
expression  which  I  most  dreaded  to  see;  while  the  excited, 
disturbed  and  occasionally  angry  countenance  of  his  step-son, 
denoted  plainly  that  some  storm  had  occurred,  probably  at  the 
counting-room,  of  which  I  had  no  knowledge,  except  from  its 
after  effects.    My  office  of  mediator,  too,  was  suspended,  from  the 
fact  that  the  difficulties  which  arose  were  usually  concerning  some 
real  or  supposed  neglect  or  mismanagement  of  business  matters 
on  the  part  of  the  young  and  inexperienced  clerk ;  a  species  of 
faults  with  which  my  father,  a  most  thorough  merchant  and 
exact  accountant,  had  very  little  patience,  and  to  which  the 
careless  and  unbusiness-like  delinquent  was  exceedingly  prone. 
Matters  went  on  thus  for  about  six  months,  when  it  suddenly 
became  evident  that  my  flither  had  either  been  powerfully  in- 
fluenced by  insinuations  from  some  foreign  quarter,  or  had  himself 
suddenly  conceived  a  new  and  alarming  idea.    He  is,  as  you  are 
aware,  a  plain  m.an,  honest  and  straight-forward  in  his  purposes, 
whatever  they  may  be ;  and,  even  if  it  occurred  to  him  to  ma- 
noeuvre, incapable  of  carrying  out  successfully,  or  with  tactj  any 
apecies  of  artifice.    Our  eyes  could  not,  therefore,  long  be  closed 


596 


TOE  LAMPLIGHTJ5R, 


to  the  fact  that  he  was  resolved  to  put  an  immediate  check 
apon  the  freedom  of  intercourse  which  lad  hitherto  subsisted 
between  the  two  youthful  inmates  of  his  house;  to  forward  which 
purpose  he  immediately  introduced  into  the  family,  ir.  the  position 
of  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  has  continued  with  us  ever 
since.  The  almost  constant  presence  of  this  stranger,  together 
with  the  sudden  interference  of  my  father  with  such  of  our  long- 
established  customs  as  favored  his  step-son's  familiar  intimacy 
with  me,  sufficiently  proved  his  intention  to  uproot  and  destroy 
if  possible,  the  closeness  of  our  friendship.  Nor  was  it  surprising, 
considering  the  circumstance  that  I  had  already  reached  the 
period  of  womanhood,  and  the  attachment  between  us  could  no 
longer  be  considered  a  childish  one,  while  any  other  might  be 
expected  to  draw  forth  my  father's  disapproval,  since  his  wife's 
idolized  son  was  as  far  as  ever  from  being  a  favorite  with  him. 

"  My  distress  at  these  proceedings  was  only  equalled  by  the 
indignation  of  my  companion  in  suffering,  whom  no  previous  con- 
duct on  my  father's  part  had  ever  angered  as  this  did  ;  nor  did 
the  scheme  succeed  in  separating  him  from  me  ;  for,  while  he  on 
every  possible  occasion  avoided  the  presence  of  that  spy  (as  he 
termed  3Irs.  Ellis),  his  inventive  genius  continually  contrived 
opportunities  of  seeing  and  conversing  with  me  in  her  absence,  — 
a  course  of  behavior  calculated  to  give  still  greater  coloring  to 
my  father's  suspicions. 

"  I  am  convinced  that  he  was  mainly  actuated  to  this  course 
ly  a  deep  sense  of  unkindness  and  injustice,  and  a  desire  to 
manifest  his  independence  of  what  he  considered  unwarrantable 
tyranny;  nor  have  I  reason  to  believe  that  the  idea  of  romance, 
or  even  future  marriage  with  myself,  entered  at  all  into  his  cal- 
culations;  and  I,  who  at  that  time  knew,  or,  at  least,  was  influ- 
enced by  no  higher  law  than  his  will,  lent  mj'self  unhesitatingly 
to  a  species  of  petty  deception,  to  elude  the  vigilance  which  would 
have  kept  us  apart.  My  father,  however,  as  is  frequently  the 
case  with  people  of  his  unsocial  teraperameat  and  apparent  obtuse- 
ness  of  observation,  saw  more  of  our  manoeuvring  than  we  were 
aware  of,  and  imagined  far  more  than  ever  in  reality  existed 
He  watched  us  carefully,  and,  contrary  to  hli  -asual  cr»uTse  ou 


THE  LAMPLlGHlTiK. 


391 


proceeding,  forbore  for  a  tirae  any  interference.  I  hr/e  since 
been  led  te  think  that  he  designed  to  wean  us  from  eaiih  othifi* 
m  a  less  unnatural  manner  than  that  which  he  had  at  first 
attempted,  b^^  availing  himself  of  the  earlisst  opportunity  to 
transfer  his  ste})-son  to  a  situation  connected  with  his  own  mer- 
cantile establishment,  cither  in  a  foreign  country,  or  a  distant 
part  of  our  own;  and  forbore,  until  his  plans -/rere  ripe,  to  distress 
and  grieve  me  by  giving  way  to  the  feelings  of  annoyance  and 
displeasure  which  were  burning  within  him,  —  for  he  was,  and 
had  ever  been,  as  kind  and  indulgent  toward  his  undeserving 
child  as  was  consistent  with  a  due  maintenance  of  his  authority 

"  Before  such  a  course  could  be  carried  out,  however,  circum 
stances  occurred,  and  suspicions  became  aroused,  which  destroyed 
one  of  their  victims,  and  plunged  the  other  — 

Here  Emily's  voice  failed  her.  She  laid  her  head  upon  Ger- 
trude's shoulder,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

"  Do  not  try  to  tell  me  the  rest,  dear  Emily,"  said  Gertrude. 
"  It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  you  are  so  unhappy.  Do  not 
make  yourself  wretched  by  dwelling,  for  my  sake,  upon  sorrows 
that  are  past." 

"  Past !  "  replied  Emily,  recovering  her  i  oice,  and  wiping  away 
her  tears ;  "  no,  they  are  never  past ;  it  is  only  because  I  am  so 
little  wont  to  speak  of  them  that  they  overcome  me  now.  Nor 
am  I  unhappy,  Gertrude.  It  is  but  rarely  that  my  peace  is 
shaken ;  nor  would  I  now  allow  my  weak  nerves  to  bo  unstrung 
by  imparting  to  another  the  secrets  of  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
time  of  trial,  were  it  not  that,  since  you  know  so  well  how  har- 
moniously and  sweetly  my  life  is  passing  on  to  its  great  and 
eternal  awakening,  I  desire  to  prove  to  my  darling  child  the 
power  of  that  heavenly  faith  which  has  turned  my  darkness  into 
marvellous  light,  and  made  afflictions  such  as  mine  the  blessed 
harbingers  of  final  joy. 

But  1  have  not  much  more  to  tell,  and  that  sha'J  be  in  as 
few  words  as  possible." 

She  then  went  on,  in  a  firm  though  low  and  supprerfjed  voice. 

•*  I  was  suddenly  taken  ill  with  a  fever.    Mrs.  Ellis,  whom  I 
had  alway«  treated  with  coldness,  and  often  with  disdain  (for  y  j« 
34 


898 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


must  reraeirber  I  was  a  spoiled  child),  cursed  me  by  sight  ana 
day  with  a  care  and  derotion  which  I  had  no  right  to  expect  at 
her  hands ;  and,  under  her  watchful  attendance,  and  the  skilful 
treatnient  of  our  good  Dr.  Jeremy  'cTcn  then  the  family  physi- 
cian), I  began,  af^er  some  weeks,  to  recover.  One  day,  when  1 
was  sufficiently  well  to  be  up  and  dressed  for  several  hours  at  a 
time,  I  went,  for  change  of  air  and  scene,  into  my  father's  library, 
the  room  next  my  own,  and  there  quite  alone  lay  half  reclining 
upon  the  sofa.  Mrs.  Ellis  had  gone  to  attend  to  household  duties, 
out,  before  she  left  me,  she  brought  from  the  adjoining  chamber 
iind  placed  within  my  reach  a  small  table,  upon  which  were 
arranged  various  phials,  glasses,  etc.,  and  among  them  everything 
which  I  could  possibly  require  before  her  return.  It  was  towards 
the  latter  part  of  an  afternoon  in  June,  and  I  lay  watching  the 
approach  of  sunset  from  an  opposite  window.  I  was  oppressed 
with  a  sad  sense  of  loneliness,  for  during  the  past  six  weeks  I 
had  enjoyed  no  society  but  that  of  my  nurse,  together  with  peri- 
odical visits  from  my  father ;  and  felt  therefore  no  common  satis- 
taction  and  pleasure  when  my  most  congenial  but  now  nearly 
forbidden  associate  unexpectedly  entered  the  room.  He  had  not 
Been  me  since  my  illness,  and  after  this  unusually  protracted  and 
painful  separation  our  meeting  was  proportionately  tender  and 
affectionate.  He  had,  with  all  the  fire  of  a  hot  and  ungoverned 
temper,  a  woman's  depth  of  feeling,  warmth  of  heart,  and  sympa- 
thizing sweetness  of  manner.  Well  do  I  remember  the  expres- 
eion  of  his  noble  face,  the  manly  tones  of  his  voice,  as,  seated 
oeside  me  on  the  wide  couch,  he  bathed  the  temples  of  my  aching 
head  with  cologne,  which  he  took  from  the  table  near  by,  at  the 
game  time  expressing  again  and  again  his  joy  at  once  more  seeing 
me. 

"  How  long  we  had  sat  thus  I  cannot  tell,  but  the  twilight  .vaa 
deepening  in  the  room,  ^hen  we  wn-e  suddenly  interrupted  by 
my  father,  who  entered  abruptly,  can.e  towards  us  with  hasty  steps, 
but,  stopping  nhort  when  within  a  yard  or  two,  folded  his  arms 
and  confronted  his  step-son  with  such  a  look  of  angry  contc^mpt 

I  had  never  before  seen  ujon  his  face.    Tlie  latter  rose  anJ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


399 


i5lood  bofuTP  him  with  a  glance  of  proud  defiance,  and  then  ensuea 
a  scene  which  I  have  neither  the  wish  nor  the  power  to  describe. 

It  is  sulTicient  to  say  that  in  the  double  accusation  which  ray 
excited  parent  now  brought  against  the  object  of  hiu  wrath  he 
urged  the  fact  of  his  seeking  (as  he  expressed  it)  by  mean,  base, 
and  contemptible  artifice  to  wdn  the  affections,  and  with  them  the 
expected  fortune,  of  his  only  child,  as  a  secondary  and  pardon- 
able crime,  compared  with  his  deeper,  darker,  and  but  just 
detected  guilt  of  forgery,  —  forgery  of  a  large  amount,  and  upon 
his  benefactor's  name. 

"  To  this  day,  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Emily,  with  feeling, 
"  that  charge  remains  uncontradicted ;  but  I  did  not  then,  I  do 
not  now,  and  I  never  can  believe  it.  Whatever  were  his  faults 
(and  his  impetuous  temper  betrayed  him  into  many),  of  this  dark 
crime  (though  I  have  not  even  his  own  word  in  attestation)  I 
dare  pronounce  him  innocent. 

"  You  cannot  wonder,  Gertrude,  that  in  my  feeble  and  invalid 
condition  I  was  hardly  capable  of  realizing  at  the  time,  far  less) 
of  retaining  any  distinct  recollection  of  the  circumstances  that 
followed  my  father's  words.  A  few  dim  pictures,  however,  the 
last  my  poor  eyes  ever  beheld,  are  still  engraved  upon  my  memory, 
and  visible  to  my  imagination.  My  father  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  light,  and  from  the  first  moment  of  his  entering  the  room 
t  never  saw  his  face  again ;  but  the  countenance  of  the  other,  the 
object  of  his  accusation,  illumined  as  it  was  by  the  last  rays  of 
the  golden  sunset,  stands  ever  in  the  foreground  of  my  recollection. 
His  head  was  thrown  proudly  back;  conscious  but  injured  inno- 
cence proclaimed  itself  in  his  clear,  calm  eye,  which  shrunk  mtt 
from  the  closest  scrutiny;  his  hand  was  clenched,  as  if  he  were 
vainly  striving  to  repress  the  passion  which  proclaimed  itself  in 
the  compressed  lips,  the  set  teeth,  the  deep  and  angry  indignatic^A 
which  overspread  his  face.  He  did  not  speak,  —  apparently  ho 
could  not  command  voice  to  do  so ;  but  my  father  continued  to 
upbnid  him,  in  language,  no  doubt,  cutting  and  severe,  thoi.gb 
I  remember  not  a  word  of  it.  It  was  fearful  to  watch  the  work- 
ing of  the  young  man's  face,  while  he  stood  there  listening,  to 
taunts  and  enduring  reproaches  which  were  no  doubt  believed  by 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


him  wbj  utterel  their  to  be  just  and  merited,  but  which  wiough 
the  youth  to  a  degree  of  frenzy  which  it  was  terrible  indeed  to 
witness.  Suddenly  he  took  one  step  forward,  slowly  lifting  the 
clenched  hand  which  had  hitherto  hung  at  his  side.  I  know  not 
whether  he  mi^jht  then  have  intended  to  call  Heaven  to  witness 
his  innocence  of  the  crime  with  which  he  was  charged,  or  whether 
he  might  have  designed  to  strike  my  father ;  for  I  sprang  from 
my  seat,  prepared  to  rush  between  them,  and  implore  them,  for 
my  sake,  to  desist ;  but  my  strength  failed  me,  and  with  a  shriek 
I  sunk  back  in  a  fainting  fit. 

"  0,  thi  horror  of  my  awakening !  How  shall  I  find  words  to 
tell  it  ?  —  and  yet  I  must!  Listen,  Gertrude.  He  —  the  poor, 
ruined  boy  —  sprung  to  help  me ;  and,  maddened  by  injustice,  he 
knew  not  what  he  did.  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  never  blamed 
him ;  and  if,  in  my  agony,  I  uttered  words  that  seemed  like  a 
reproach,  it  was  because  I  too  was  frantic,  and  knew  not  what  I 
said  !  " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude ;  "  he  did  not  —  " 

"No,  no  I  he  did  not — he  did  Tiot  put  out  my  eyes!"  ex- 
claimed Emily;  "  it  was  an  accident.  He  reached  forward  for 
the  cologne  which  he  had  just  had  in  his  hand.  There  were 
several  bottles,  and,  in  his  haste,  he  seized  one  containing  a  pow- 
erful  acid  which  Mrs.  Ellis  had  found  occasion  to  use  in  my  sick 
room.  It  had  a  heavy  glass  stopper,  —  and  he  —  his  hand  was 
unsteady,  and  he  spilt  it  all  —  " 

"  On  your  eyes  ?  "  shrieked  Gertrude. 

Emily  bowed  her  head. 
0,  poor  Emily  !  "  cried  Gertrude,  "  and  wretched,  wretched 
young  man  !  " 

"  Wretched  indeed  !  "  ejaculated  Emily.  "  Bestow  all  your 
pity  on  him,  Gertrude,  for  his  was  the  harder  fate  of  the  two." 

"  O,  Ejuily  !  how  intense  must  have  been  the  pain  you  endured  I 
HoAV  could  3-0U  sufier  so,  and  live  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  pain  from  my  eyes  ?  That  was  severe 
indeed,  but  the  mental  agony  was  worse  !  " 

^"  What  became  of  him?"  said  Gertrude.  What  dil  Mj 
Qrah- X  do  ? " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


1  cannot  give  you  any  exact  account  of  what  folsowed  1 
was  in  no  state  to  know  anything  of  my  fatlier's  treatment  of  bi> 
etep-son.  You  can  imagine  it.  however.  He  banished  hi'ii  from  his 
sight  and  knowledge  forever;  and  it  is  easy  to  believe  it  was  with 
no  added  gentleness,  since  he  had  now,  beside  the  other  crimes  im- 
puted to  him,  been  the  unhappy  cause  of  his  daughter's  blindness." 

"  And  did  you  never  hear  fr:m  him  again  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Through  the  good  doctor,  who  alone  knew  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  learned — after  a  long  interval  of  suspense  —  that 
he  had  sailed  for  South  America  ;  and,  in  the  hope  of  once  more 
communicating  with  the  poor  exile,  and  assuring  him  of  ray 
continued  love,  I  rallied  from  the  wretched  state  of  sickness, 
fever  and  blindness,  into  which  I  had  fallen  ;  the  doctor  had  even 
some  expectation  of  restoring  sight  to  my  eyes,  which  were  in  a 
much  more  hopeful  condition.  Several  months  passed  away,  and 
my  kind  friend,  who  was  most  diligent  and  persevering  in  his 
inquiries,  having  at  length  learned  the  actual  residence  and 
address  of  the  ill-fated  youth,  I  was  commencing,  through  the  aid 
of  Mrs.  Ellis  (whom  pity  had  now  wholly  won  to  my  service),  a 
letter  of  love,  and  an  entreaty  for  his  return,  when  a  fatal  seal 
was  put  to  all  my  earthly  hopes.  He  died,  in  a  foreign  landj 
alone,  unnursed,  untended,  and  uncared  for ;  he  died  of  that 
inhospitable  southern  disease,  which  takes  the  stranger  for  ita 
victim ;  and  I,  on  hearing  the  news  of  it,  sunk  back  into  a  moio 
pitiable  malady ;  and — alas  for  the  encouragement  the  good  doctor 
had  held  out  of  my  gradual  restoration  to  sight !  —  I  wept  all  his 
hopes  away ! " 

Emily  paused.  Gertrude  put  her  arms  around  her,  and  they 
clung  closely  to  each  other ;  grief  and  sorrow  made  the  union 
batween  them  dearer  than  ever. 

"  I  was  then,  Gertrude,"  continued  Emily,  "  a  child  of  the 
world,  eager  for  worldly  pleasures,  and  ignorant  of  my  other. 
For  a  time,  therefore,  I  dwelt  in  utter  darkness, —  the  darkness 
of  despair.  I  began  too  again  to  feel  my  bodily  strength  restored, 
and  to  look  forward  to  a  useless  and  miserable  life.  You  can 
form  no  idea  of  the  utter  wretchedness  in  which  my  days  were 
passed.    Often  have  I  since  reproached  myself  for  the  misery  I 


402 


niE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


mutit  have  ca  ised  my  poor  father,  who,  though  he  never  spoke  of 
it,  was,  I  am  sure,  deeply  pained  by  the  recollection  of  the  terrible 
scenes  we  had  lately  gone  through,  and  who  wouhl,  I  am  con- 
vinced, have  given  worlds  to  restore  the  past. 

"  But  at  last  there  came  a  dawn  to  my  seemingly  everlasting 
night.  It  came  in  the  shape  of  a  minister  of  Christ,  our  own  dear 
'Mr.  Arnold ;  who  opened  the  eyes  of  my  understanding,  lit  the 
lamp  of  religion  in  my  now  softened  soul,  taught  me  the  way  to 
peace,  and  led  my  feeble  steps  into  that  blessed  rest  which  even 
on  earth  remaineth  to  the  people  of  God. 

"  In  the  eyes  of  the  world,  I  am  still  the  unfortunate  blind  girl ; 
one  who,  by  her  sad  fate,  is  cut  off  from  every  enjoyment ;  but  so 
great  is  the  awakening  I  have  experienced,  that  to  me  it  is  far 
otherwise,  —  and  I  am  ready  to  exclaim,  like  him  who  in  old  time 
experienced  his  Saviour's  healing  power,  '  Once  I  was  blind,  but 
now  I  see  !  "' 

Gertrude  half  forgot  her  own  troubles  while  listening  to  Emily's 
sad  story ;  and  when  the  laft-r  laid  her  hand  upon  her  head,  and 
prayed  that  she  too  might  bo  fitted  for  a  patient  endurance  of 
trial,  and  be  made  strongar  and  better  thereby,  she  felt  her  heart 
penetrated  with  that  deep  lo\'e  and  trust  which  seldom  come  to 
as  except  in  the  hour  of  servo  .v,  and  prove,  that  it  is  through  suf 
teriiig  only  we  are  mKd>  p^rf^-  ^.t. 


CUi PTER 


XLI. 


But  in  that  hour  of  agony  the  maid 
Deserted  not  herself  ;  her  very  dread 
Had  calmed  her  ;  and  her  heart 
Knew  the  whole  horror,  and  its  only  part. 

SOUTHEY. 

As  M.  Graham  had  expressed  in  his  letter  the  intention  cf  l^ing 
ai  the  steamboat  wharf  in  New  York  to  meet  his  daughter  a\d 
Ge.i:rude  on  their  arrival,  Dr.  Jeremy  thought  it  unnecessary  fo. 
him  to  accompany  his  charges  further  than  Albany,  where  he 
could  see  them  safely  on  their  way,  and  then  proceed  to  Boston 
with  his  wife  over  the  Western  Railroad  ;  Mrs.  Jeremy  being  now 
impatient  to  return  home,  and  having,  moreover,  no  disposition  to 
revisit  the  great  metropolis  of  New  York  during  the  warm 
weather, 

"  Good-by,  Gerty,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  bade  them  farewell 
on  the  deck  of  one  of  the  Hudson-river  boats.  "  I 'm  afraiS 
you 've  lost  your  heart  in  Saratoga ;  you  don't  look  quite  Sv 
bright  as  you  did  when  we  first  arrived  there.  It  can't  have 
strayed  far,  however,  I  think,  in  such  a  place  as  that ;  so  be  suro 
and  find  it  before  I  see  you  in  Boston.'' 

He  had  hardly  gone,  and  it  wanted  a  few  minutes  only  of  tho 
vime  for  the  boat  to  start,  when  a  gay  group  of  fashionables  madu  ^ 
their  appearance,  talking  and  laughing  too  loud,  as  it  seemed  to 
Gertrude,  to  be  well-bred ;  and  conspicuous  among  them  was  Aliss 
Clinton,  whose  companions  were  evidently  making  her  the  subject 
of  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  pleasantry,  by  which,  although  sho 
feigned  to  be  teased  and  half-olfended,  her  smiling,  blushing  face 
gave  evidence  that  she  felt  flattered  and  pleased.  At  length,  the 
significant  gestures  of  some  of  the  party,  and  a  half-smothere<^ 


404 


THE  LAMPLIGKT£ft. 


nusli-h !  gave  intimation  of  the  approach  of  some  one  who  must 
Dot  overhear  their  remarks ;  and  presently  William  Sullivan,  with 
a  travelling-bag  in  his  hand,  a  heavy  shawl  thrown  over  one  arm, 
and  his  countenance  grave,  as  if  he  had  not  quite  recovered  from 
the  chagrin  of  the  previous  evening,  appeared  in  sight,  passed 
Gertrude,  whose  veil  was  drawn  over  her  face,  and  joined  Isabel, 
placing  his  burden  on  a  chair  which  stood  near. 

He  had  hardly  com-menced  speaking  to  Miss  Clinton,  however, 
before  the  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  gave  notice  to  all  but  the 
passengers  to  quit  the  boat,  and  he  was  compelled  to  make  a  hasty 
movement  to  depart.  As  he  did  so,  he  drew  a  step  nearer  Ger- 
trude, a  step  further  from  her  whom  he  was  addressing,  and  the 
former  plainly  distinguished  the  closing  words  of  his  rem/irk: 
**  Then,  if  you  will  do  your  best  to  return  on  Thursday,  I  will  try 
uot  to  be  impatient  in  the  mean  time." 

A  moment  more,  and  the  boat  was  on  its  way ;  not,  however, 
until  a  tall  figure,  who  reached  the  landing  just  as  she  started,  had, 
to  the  horror  of  the  spectators,  daringly  leaped  the  gap  that 
already  divided  her  from  the  shore  ;  after  which,  he  sought  the 
gentleman's  saloon,  threw  himself  upon  a  couch,  drew  a  book  from 
his  pocket,  and  commenced  reading. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  was  fairly  under  way,  and  quiet  prevailed  in 
their  neighborhood,  Emily  spoke  softly  to  Gertrude,  and  said, 

"  Did  n't  I  just  now  hear  Isabel  Clinton's  voice  ?  " 

"  She  is  here,"  replied  Gertrude,  "  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Jack,  but  sitting  with  her  back  towards  us." 

"  Did  n't  she  see  us  ?  " 
I  believe  she  did,"  answered  Gertrude,    "  She  stood  looking 
this  way  while  her  party  were  arranging  their  seats." 

"  And  then  chose  one  which  commanded  a  differ eiU  view  ?  " 
Yes." 

*•  Perhaps  she  is  going  to  New  York  to  meet  Mrs.  Graham." 

"  Very  possible,"  replied  Gertrude.     I  did  n't  think  of  it  before." 

There  \ras  then  quite  a  pause.  Emily  appeared  to  be  engaged 
in  thought.  Presently  she  asked,  in  the  softest  of  whispen?,  "  Who 
;vas  the  gentlamin  ivho  came  and  spoke  to  her  just  before  the  boat 
Bfcirted  ? " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


.405 


*'  Willio    was  the  tremulous  response. 

Emily  pressed  Gertrude's  hand,  and  was  ifilent.    She,  too,  had 
t-erheard  his  farewell  remark,  and  felt  its  significance. 

Several  hours  passed  away,  and  they  had  proceeded  some  dis- 
taace  down  the  river ;  for  the  motion  of  the  boat  was  rapid  —  too 
rapid,  as  ic  seemoi  to  Gertrude,  for  safety.  At  first  occupied  by 
tier  own  thoughts,  and  unable  to  enjoy  the  beautiful  scenery^ 
wnich  a  few  weeks  previously  had  caused  her  such  keen  delight, 
she  had  sat,  inattentive  to  all  around,  gazing  down  into  the  deep  blue 
water,  and  communing  with  her  own  heart.  Gradually,  however, 
she  was  led  to  observe  several  circumstances,  which  excited  so 
much  curiosity,  and  finally  so  much  alarm,  that,  effectually 
aroused  from  the  train  of  reflections  she  had  been  indulging,  she 
bad  leisure  only  to  take  into  view  her  own  and  Emily's  present 
situation,  and  its  probable  consequences. 

Several  times,  since  they  left  Albany,  had  the  boat  in  which 
they  were  passengers  passed  and  repassed  another  of  similar  size, 
construction  and  speed,  likewise  responsibly  charged  with  busy, 
living  freight,  and  bound  in  the  same  direction.  Occasionally, 
during  their  headlong  and  reckless  course,  the  contiguity  of  the 
two  boats  was  such  as  to  excite  the  serious  alarm  of  one  sex,  and 
the  unmeasured  censure  of  tbe  other.    The  rumor  began  to  bo 
circulated  that  they  were  racing,  and  racing  desperately.  Some 
few,  regardless  of  danger,  ?nd  ei/tering  upon  the  interest  of  the 
chase  with  an  insane  and  foolish  excitement,  watched  with  pleased 
eagerness  the  mad  c^-r^er  of  rival  ambition ;  but  by  far  the 
majority  of  the  co*>ipapy,  including  all  persons  of  reason  and 
sense,  looked  on  in  indignation  and  fear.    The  usual  stopping- 
places  on  the  rver  were  either  recklessly  passed  by,  or  cnly 
paused  at,  while,  with  indecent  haste,  passengers  were  shuflled 
backwards  and  forwards,  at  the  risk  of  life  and  limb,  their  bag- 
gage (or  somebody's  else)  unceremoniously  flung  after  them  the 
panting,  snorting  engine  in  the  mean  time  bellowing  with  rage  at 
the  i^heck  thus  unwillingly  imposed  upon  its  freedom.  Towaruh 
noon  the  -^cver  of  agitation  had  reached  its  height,  and  could  not 
be  whall;  quieted  ever  by  the  assurance  from  head-quarters  that 
there  was  no  danger . 


106 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Geiti  ide  sat  with  her  hand  locked  in  Emily's,  anxiously  watcn* 
ing  every  indication  of  terror,  and  endeavoring  to  judge  from  tha 
countenances  and  words  of  her  most  intelligent-looking  fellow-trav- 
ellers the  actual  degree  of  their  insecurity.  Emily,  shut  out  from 
the  sight  of  all  that  was  going  on,  but  rendered,  through  her  acute 
hearing,  vividly  conscious  of  the  prevailing  alarm,  was  perfectly 
^calm,  though  very  pale  ;  and,  from  time  to  time,  questioned  Ger- 
trude concerning  the  vicinity  of  the  other  boat,  a  collision  wltn 
which  was  the  principal  cause  of  fear. 

At  length  their  boat  for  a  few  moments  distanced  its  competitor , 
the  assurance  of  perfect  safety  was  impressively  asserted,  anxiety 
began  to  be  relieved,  and,  most  of  the  passengers  being  restored 
to  their  wonted  composure,  the  various  parties  scattered  about  tho 
deck  resumed  their  newspapers  or  their  conversation.  The  gay 
group  to  which  Isabel  Clinton  belonged,  several  of  whom  had  been 
the  victims  of  nervous  agitation  and  trembling,  seemed  reassured, 
and  began  once  more  to  talk  and  laugh  merrily.  Emily,  however, 
Btill  looked  pallid,  and,  as  Gertrude  fancied,  a  little  faint.  Let 
us  go  below,  Emily,"  said  she  ;  "  it  appears  now  to  be  very  quiet 
and  safe.  There  are  sofas  in  the  ladies'  cabin,  where  you  can  lie 
down ;  and  we  can  both  get  a  glass  of  water." 

Emily  assented,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  comfortably  reclining 
in  a  corner  of  the  saloon,  where  she  and  Gertrude  remained  undis 
turbed  until  dinner-time.  They  did  not  go  to  the  dinner-tablo :  it 
was  not  their  intention  from  the  first,  and,  after  the  agitation  of 
the  morning,  was  far  from  being  desirable.  So  they  stayed  quietly 
where  they  were,  while  the  greater  part  of  the  passengers  crowded 
from  every  part  of  the  boat,  to  invigorate  themselves,  after  their 
fright,  by  the  enjoyment  of  a  comfortable  m^eal ;  which  they  had 
reason  to  expect,  as  the  racing  appeared  to  have  ceased,  and  everj^- 
thing  was  orderly  and  peaceable. 

Gertrude  opened  her  travelling-basket,  and  took  out  the  pack- 
age which  contained  their  luncheon.  It  was  not  one  of  those 
luncheons  which  careful  mothers  provide  for  their  travelling  fam- 
ilies, choice  in  its  material,  and  tempting  in  its  arrangement;  but 
consisted  merely  of  such  dry  morsels  as  had  been  hastily  collected 
ind  put  up  at  their  hotel,  in  Albany  by  Dr.  Jeremy's  lirection 


TflS!  LAMPLIGHTER. 


40T 


C?-ertrude  looked  from  the  little  withered  slices  of  tongue  and 
stale  bread  to  the  veteian  sponge-cakes  which  completed  the  assort- 
ment, and  was  hesitating  which  she  could  most  conscientiously 
recommend  to  Emily,  when  a  civil-looking  waiter  appeared,  bear- 
ing a  huge  tray  of  refreshments,  which  he  placed  upon  a  table 
close  by,  at  the  same  time  turning  to  Gertrude,  and  asking  if  there 
was  anything  else  he  could  serve  her  with. 

"This  is  not  for  us,"  said  Gertrude.  "  You  nave  made  a  mis- 
take.'^ 

"No  mistake,"  replied  the  man.  "Orders  was  for  de  blind 
lady  and  hansum  young  miss.  I  only  'beys  orders.  Anyting 
furder,  miss  ?  " 

Gertrude  dismissed  the  man  with  the  assurance  that  they 
wanted  nothing  more,  and  then,  turning  to  Emily,  asked,  with  an 
attempt  at  cheerfulness,  what  they  should  do  with  this  Aladdin- 
like repast. 

"  Eat  it,  my  dear,  if  you  can,"  said  Emily.  "  It  is  no  doubt 
meant  for  us." 

"  But  to  whom  are  we  indebted  for  it  ?  " 

"To  my  blindness  and  your  beauty,  I  suppose,"  said  Emily 
Emiling.  She  then  continued,  with  wonderful  simplicity,  "  Per- 
haps the  chief  steward,  or  master  of  ceremonies,  took  pity  on  our 
inability  to  come  to  dinner,  and  so  sent  the  dinner  to  us.  At  any 
rate,  my  child,  you  must  eat  it  before  it  is  cold." 

"  i  !  "  said  Gertrude,  conscious  of  her  utter  want  of  appetite  ; 
"  I  am  not  hungry ;  but  I  will  select  a  nice  bit  for  you." 

The  sable  waiter,  when  he  came  to  remove  the  disihes,  really 
locked  sad  to  see  how  little  they  had  eaten.  Gertrude  drew  out 
her  purse,  and,  after  bestowing  a  fee  upon  the  man,  inquired 
whom  she  should  pay  for  the  meal. 

"  Pay,  miss  !  "  said  the  man,  grinning.  "  Bless  ray  stars  I  de 
gentleman  pays  for  all !  " 

Who  ?    What  gentleman  ?  "  asked  Gertrude,  in  surprise. 

But  before  the  man  could  give  her  any  reply,  another  white- 
aproned  individual  appeared,  and  beckoned  to  his  fellow-waiter, 
who,  thnreupf)n,  snatched  up  his  tray  and  trotted  off,  bonding 


408 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER, 


beneath  its  weight,  and  leaving  Gertrude  and  Emily  to  wonder 
who  the  benevolent  o;entleman  mi^ht  be. 

They  finallj  came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  unexpected  atten- 
tion was  due  to  the  thoughtfulness  of  Dr.  Jeremy,  who  must  have 
given  orders  to  that  effect  before  he  left  the  boat;  and  great  was 
the  unmerited  praise  and  the  undeserved  gratitude  which  the 
doctor  received  that  day,  for  an  act  of  considerate  politeness  of 
which  the  old  gentleman,  with  all  his  kindness  of  heart,  would 
never  have  dreamed. 

Dinner  concluded,  Emily  again  laid  down,  advised  Gertrude 
to  do  the  same,  and,  supposing  that  her  advice  was  being  followed, 
slept  for  an  hour;  while  her  companion  sat  by,  watching  the 
peaceful  slumber  of  her  friend,  and  carefully  and  noiselessly 
brushing  away  every  fly  that  threatened  to  disturb  a  repose  much 
needed  by  Miss  Graham,  who  could,  in  her  feeble  state  of  health, 
ill  afford  to  spare  the  rest  she  had  been  deprived  of  for  one  or 
two  previous  nights. 

What  time  is  it?  "  asked  she,  on  awakino^. 

"  Nearly  a  quarter  past  three,"  replied  Gertrude,  glancing  at 
her  watch  (a  beautiful  gift  from  a  class  of  her  former  pupils). 

Emily  started  up.  ^'  We  can't  be  far  from  New  York,''  said 
she  ;  "  where  are  we  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,"  replied  Gertrude ;  "  I  think  we  must 
be  near  the  Palisades;  if  you  will  stay  here,  I  will  go  and  see." 
She  passed  across  the  saloon,  and  was  about  ascending  the  stair- 
case, when  she  was  startled  and  alarmed  by  a  rushing  sound, 
mingled  with  the  hurried  tread  of  feet.  She  kept  on,  however 
though  once  or  twice  jostled  by  persons  with  frightened  faces, 
who  crowded  past  and  pressed  forward  to  learn  the  cause  of  the 
commotion.  She  had  just  gained  the  head  of  the  stairway,  and 
was  looking  fearfully  round  her,  when  a  man  rushed  past,  gasp- 
ing for  breath,  his  face  of  an  ashen  paleness,  and  shrieking  the 
horrid  word  of  alarm  —  fire  —  fire  ! 

A  second  more,  and  a  scene  of  dismay  and  confusion  ensued 
too  terrible  for  description.  Shrieks  rose  upon  the  air,  groana 
find  cries  of  despair  burst  forth  from  hearts  that  were  breaking 
r?ith  fear  for  others,  or  maddened  at  the  certainty  of  their  own 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


409 


deetructioa  Each  called  uDon  each  for  help,  when  ill  were  alike 
helpless.  Those  who  had  never  prayed  before  povred  out  their 
soiib  in  the  fervent  ejaculation,  "  G,  my  Grod !  "  Many  a  brain 
reeled  in  that  time  of  darkness  and  peril.  Many  a  brave  spirit 
siokened  and  sunk  under  the  fearfulness  of  the  hour. 

Gertrude  straightened  her  slight  figure,  and,  with  her  dark  eyes 
almost  starting  from  their  sockets,  gazed  around  her  upon  every 
side.  All  was  alike  tumult ;  but  the  destroyer  was  as  yet  discern- 
ible  in  one  direction  only.  Towards  the  centre  of  the  boat,  where 
the  machinery,  heated  to  the  last  degree,  had  fired  the  parched 
and  inflammable  vessel,  a  huge  volume  of  flame  was  already 
visible,  darting  out  its  fiery  fangs,  and  causing  the  stoutest  hearts 
to  shrink  and  crouch  in  horror.  She  gave  but  one  glance ;  then 
bounded  down  the  stairs,  bent  solely  on  rejoining  Emily.  But  she 
was  arrested  at  the  very  onset.  One  step  only  had  she  taken 
when  she  felt  herself  encircled  by  a  pair  of  powerful  arms,  and 
a  movement  made  to  again  rush  with  her  upon  deck ;  while  a 
familiar  voice  gasped  forth  the  words,  "  Gertrude,  my  child !  my 
own  darling  !    Be  quiet  —  be  quiet !  —  I  will  save  you!  " 

Well  might  he  urge  her  to  be  quiet,  —  for  she  was  struggling 
madly.  "  No,  no  !  "  shouted  she ;  "  Emily  !  Emily !  Let  me  die  ! 
let  me  die !  but  I  must  find  Emily  !  "  , 

*'  Where  is  she  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Phillips ;  for  it  was  he. 

"  There,  there,"  pointed  Gertrude,  —  "in  the  cabin.  Let  me  go  ! 
let  me  go  !  " 

He  cast  one  look  around  him  ;  then  said,  in  a  firm  tone,  "  Be 
calm,  my  child  !    I  can  save  you  both  ;  follow  me  closely !  ■ 

With  a  leap  he  cleared  the  staircase,  and  rushed  into  the  cabin. 
In  the  farthest  corner  knelt  Emily,  her  head  thrown  back,  her 
Lands  clasped,  and  her  face  like  the  face  of  an  angel. 

Gertrude  and  Mr.  Phillips  were  by  her  side  in  an  instant.  He 
stooped  to  lift  her  in  his  arms,  Gertrude  at  the  same  tiim 
disclaiming,  "  Come,  Emily,  come  !   He  will  save  us !  " 

But  Emily  resisted.  "Leave  me,  Gertrude  —  leave  me,  and 
sjave  yourselves!  O !  "  said  she,  looking  imploringly  in  the  face 
of  the  stranger, — "leave  Tie,  save  my  child."  Ere  th# 
35 


illO 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


words  had  left  her  lips,  however,  she  was  borne  ha.f-  way  Acrosf 
the  saloon,  Gertrude  following  closely. 

"  If  we  can  cross  to  the  bows  of  the  boat,  we  are  safe  !  "  said 
Mr.  Phillips,  in  a  husky  voice. 

To  do  so,  however,  proved  impossible.     The  whole  centre 
of  the  boat  was  now  one  sheet  of  flame.     "  Good  Heavens ' 
exclaimed  he,  '  we  are  too  late  !  we  must  go  back  !  " 

A  moment  more,  and  they  had  with  much  difficulty  regained 
the  long  saloon.  And  now  the  boat,  which,  as  soon  as  the  fire 
was  discovered,  had  been  turned  towards  the  shore,  struck  upon 
the  rocks,  and  parted  in  the  middle.  Her  bows  were  conse- 
quently brought  near  to  the  land;  near  enough  to  almost  insure 
th-e  safety  of  such  persons  as  were  at  that  part  of  the  vessel. 
But,  alas  for  those  near  the  stern  !  which  was  far  out  in  the  river, 
while  the  breeze  which  blew  fresh  from  the  shore  fostered  and 
spread  the  devouring  flame  in  the  very  direction  to  place  those 
who  yet  clung  to  the  broken  fragment  between  two  equally  fatal 
elements. 

Mr.  Phillips'  first  thought,  on  gaining  the  saloon,  was  to  beat 
down  a  window-sash,  spring  upon  the  guards,  and  drag  Emily 
and  Gertrude  after  him.  Some  ropes  hung  upon  the  guards ;  he 
seized  one,  and,  with  the  ease  and  skill  of  an  old  sailor,  made  it 
fast  to  the  boat ;  then  tui'ned  to  Gertrude,  who  stood  firm  and 
unwavering  by  his  side. 

"Gertrude,"  said  he,  speaking  distinctly  and  steadily,  "1 
shall  swim  to  the  shore  with  Emily.  If  the  fire  comes  too  near, 
cling  to  the  guards ;  as  a  last  chance,  hold  on  to  the  rope.  Keep 
your  veil  flying  ;  I  shall  return." 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Emily.    "  Gertrude,  go  first !  " 
Hush,  Emily!"  exclaimed  Gertrude;  "we  shall  both  be 
saved." 

"  Cling  to  my  shoulder  in  the  water,  Emily,"  said  Mr.  Phil- 
lips, utterly  regardless  of  her  protestations.  He  took  her  once 
more  in  his  arms ;  there  was  a  splash,  and  they  were  gone.  At 
the  same  instant  Gertrude  was  seized  from  behind.  She  turned, 
and  found  herself  grasped  by  Isabel  Clinton,  who,  kneeling  upon 
the  platform,  and  frantio  with  terror,  was  clinging  so  closely 


THE  LAMPIJGHTER. 


her  as  utterly  to  Jisable  them  both  ;  at  the  same  time  shrieking, 
in  pitiable  tones,  "0,  Gertrude !  Gertrude !  save  me  !  " 

Gertrude  tried  to  lift  her  up,  but  she  was  immovable  ;  and, 
without  making  the  slightest  eff')rt  to  help  herself,  was  madly 
winding  Gertrude's  thick  travelling-dress  around  her  person,  as 
if  for  a  protection  from  the  flames ;  while  ever,  as  they  darted 
forth  new  and  nearer  lightnings,  the  frightened  girl  would  cling 
more  wildly  to  her  companion  in  danger,  at  the  same  time  praying 
with  piercing  shrieks,  that  she  would  help  and  save  her. 

But  sa  long  as  Gertrude  stood  thus  imprisoned  and  restrained 
by  the  arms  which  were  clasped  entirely  around  her  she  ^aa 
powerless  to  do  anything  for  her  own  or  Isabel's  salvation.  Sho 
looked  forth  in  the  direction  Mr.  Phillips  had  taken,  and,  to  her 
joy,  -she  saw  him  returning.  He  had  deposited  Emily  on  board  a 
boat,  which  was  fortunately  at  hand,  and  was  now  approaching 
to  claim  another  burden.  At  the  same  instant,  a  volume  of 
flame  swept  so  near  the  spot  where  the  two  girls  were  stationed, 
that  Gertrude,  who  was  standing  upright,  felt  the  scorching  heat, 
and  both  were  almost  sufi'ocated  with  smoke. 

And  now  a  new  and  heroic  resolution  took  possession  of  the 
mind  of  Gertrude.  One  of  them  could  be  saved ;  for  Mr.  Phillips 
was  within  a  few  rods  of  the  wreck.  It  should  be  Isabel !  She 
had  called  on  her  for  protection,  and  it  should  not  be  denied  her ! 
Moreover,  Willie  loved. Isabel.  Willie  would  weep  for  her  loss, 
and  that  must  not  be.  He  would  not  weep  for  Gertrude  —  at 
least  not  much ;  and,  if  one  must  die,  it  should  be  she. 

With  Gertrude,  to  resolve  was  to  do.  "  Isabel,"  said  she,  in 
a  tone  of  such  severity  as  one  might  employ  towards  a  refractory 
child,  with  whom,  as  in  this  instance,  milder  remonstrances  had 
failed  —  Isabel,  do  you  hear  me  I  Stand  up  on  your  feet ;  do 
as  I  tell  you,  and  you  shall  be  saved.    Do  you  hear  me,  Isabel  ?  " 

She  heard,  shuddered,  but  did  not  move. 

Gertrude  stooped  down,  and,  forcibly  wrenching  apart  tho 
hands  which  were  convulsively  clenched,  said,  with  a  sternnesai 
which  necossity  alone  extorted  from  her,  "  Isabel,  if  you  dc  as  I 
(ell  you,  you  will  be  on  shore  in  five  minutes,  safe  and  well ;  but, 
if  you  i  tay  tb^.re  behaving  like  a  foolish  child,  we  shall  both  oe 


4V2 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


burnt  to  death.    Fo.'  mercy's  sake,  get  up  quicklj  and  listej?  to 

me  !  ' 

Isabel  rose,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Gertrude's  calm,  steadfast  face 
and  said,  in  a  moaning  tone,    What  must  I  do  ?    I  will  try." 
Do  you  see  that  person  swimming  this  way  ?  " 
"  Yes.'' 

"  He  will  come  to  this  spot.  Hold  fast  to  that  piece  of  rope, 
and  I  will  let  you  gradually  down  to  the  water.  But,  stay !  "  — 
and,  snatching  the  deep  blue  veil  from  her  own  head,  she  tied  it 
round  the  neck  and  flung  it  over  the  fair  hair  of  Isabel.  Mre 
Phillips  was  within  a  rod  or  two.  Now,  Isabel,  now !  " 
exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  or  you  will  be  too  late  !  "  Isabel  took  the 
rope  between  her  hands,  but  shrunk  back,  appalled  at  the  sight 
of  the  water.  One  more  hot  burst  of  fire,  however,  which  issued 
forth  through  the  window,  gave  her  renewed  courage  to  brave  a 
mere  seeming  danger ;  and,  aided  by  Gertrude,  who  helped  her 
over  the  guards,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  let  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  Mr.  Phillips  was  fortunately  just  in  time  to  receive  her, 
for  she  was  so  utterly  exhausted  with  fear  that  she  could  not 
have  clung  long  to  the  rope.  Gertrude  had  no  opportunity  to 
follow  them  with  her  eye  ;  her  own  situation,  it  may  well  be 
believed,  was  now  all-engrossing.  The  flames  had  reached  her. 
She  could  hardly  breathe,  so  enveloped  was  she  in  clouds  of  dark 
smoke,  which  had  more  than  once  been  relieved  by  streaks  of 
fire,  which  had  darted  out  within  a  foot  of  her.  She  could  hesi- 
tate no  longer.  She  seized  the  piece  of  rope,  now  left  vacant 
by  Isabel,  who  was  rapidly  approaching  a  place  of  safety,  and, 
grasping  it  with  all  her  might,  leaped  over  the  side  of  the  ftist- 
consuming  vessel.  How  long  her  strength  would  have  enabled 
her  thus  to  cling,  —  how  long  the  guards,  as  yet  unapproaehed 
by  the  fire,  would  have  continued  a  sure  support  for  the  cable, — 
there  was  no  opportur/ty  to  test ;  for,  just  as  her  feet  touched  tlie 
cold  surface  of  the  river,  the  huge  wheel,  which  was  but  a  little  dis- 
tance from  where  she  hung,  gave  one  sudden,  expiring  revolution, 
sounding  like  a  death-dirge  through  the  water,  which  came  foam 
ing  and  dashing  up  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and.  as  it  swept 
away  again,  bore  with  it  the  light  form  of  Gertrude 


4>HAPTER  XLII. 


'T  is  Reason's  part 
To  govern  and  to  guard  the  heart ; 
To  lull  the  wayward  soul  to  rest. 
When  hopes  and  fears  distract  the  breast. 

CutTOIf. 

fljET  IS  now  revisit  calmer  scenes,  and  turn  our  eye»5  towards  the 
qaiet,  familiar  country-seat  of  Mr.  Graham. 

The  old  gentleman  himself,  wearied  with  travels,  and  society 
but  little  congenial  to  his  years,  is  pacing  up  and  down  his  gar- 
den-walks, stopping  now  and  then  to  observe  the  growth  of  some 
favorite  tree,  or  the  overgrowth  of  some  petted  shrub,  whose  neg- 
lected, drooping  twigs  call  for  the  master's  pruning  hand  ;  his 
contented,  satisfied  countenance  denoting  plainly  enough  ho> 
rejoiced  he  is  to  find  himself  once  more  in  his  cherished  homo 
stead.  Perhaps  he  would  not  like  to  acknowledge  it,  but  it  ij^ 
nevertheless  a  fact,  that  no  small  part  of  his  satisfaction  arises 
from  the  circumstance  that  the  repose  and  seclusion  of  his  house- 
hold is  rendered  complete  and  secure  by  the  temporary  absence 
of  its  bustling,  excitable  mistress,  whom  he  has  left  behind  him 
in  New  York.  There  is  something  pleasant,  too,  in  being  able  to 
indulge  his  imagination  so  far  as  almost  to  deceive  himself  into 
the  belief  that  the  good  old  times  have  come  back  agai"?  when 
he  was  his  own  master ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  Mrs.  Graham  takes 
advantage  of  his  years  and  growing  infirmities,  and  rules  him 
with  wonderful  tact. 

Emily  and  Gertrude,  too,  are  closely  associated  with  thoo 
good  old  times ;  and  it  adds  greatly  to  the  delusion  of  his  fancy 
to  dwell  upon  the  certainty  that  they  are  both  in  the  house,  and 
ahat  he  shall  see  them  at  dinner ;  a  cosey,  comfortable  dinner  ^1 


414 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


which  IMrs.  Lllic  will  preside  with  her  wonted  foimalitj  and  pre 
cisioD,  and  which  no  noisy,  intruding  upstarts  will  venture  to 
interrupt  or  disturb. 

Yes,  Gertrude  is  there,  as  well  as  the  rest,  saved  (she  hardly 
knew  how)  from  the  watery  grave  that  threatened  and  almost 
engulfed  her,  and  established  once  more  in  the  peacef\il,  venerable 
spot,  now  the  dearest  to  her  on  earth. 

When,  with  some  difficulty,  restored  to  the  consciousness  which 
had  utterly  forsaken  her  in  the  protracted  struggle  between  death 
and  life,  she  was  informed  that  she  had  been  found  and  picked 
up  by  some  humane  individuals,  who  had  hastily  pushed  a  boat 
from  the  shore,  and  aided  in  the  rescue  of  the  sufferers ;  that  she 
was  clinging  to  a  chair,  which  she  had  probably  grasped  when 
washed  away  by  the  sudden  rushing  of  the  water,  and  that  her 
situation  was  such  that,  a  moment  more,  and  it  would  have  been 
Impossible  to  save  her  from  the  flames,  close  to  which  she  was 
drifting. 

But  of  all  this  she  had  herself  no  recollection.  From  the  mo« 
ment  when  she  committed  her  light  weight  to  the  frail  tenure  of 
the  rope,  until  she  opened  her  eyes  in  a  quiet  spot,  and  saw 
Emily  leaning  anxiously  over  the  bed  upon  which  she  lay,  all  had 
been  a  blank  to  her  senses.  A  few  hours  from  the  time  of  the 
terrible  catastrophe  brought  Mr.  Graham  to  the  scene,  and  the  next 
day  restored  all  three  in  safety  to  the  long-deserted  old  mansion- 
house  in  D  . 

This  respectable,  venerable  habitation,  and  its  adjoining  grounds, 
wore  nearly  the  same  aspect  as  when  they  met  the  admiring  eyes 
of  Gerty  on  the  first  visit  that  she  made  Miss  Graham  in 
her  early  childhood,  —  that  long-expected  and  keenly-enjoyed 
visit,  which  proved  a  lasting  topic  for  her  youthful  enthusiasm 
\o  dwell  upon. 

The  great  elm-trees,  casting  their  deep  shade  upon  the  green 
I  nd  velvety  '.awn  in  front ;  the  neat,  smooth  gravel-walk,  which 
led  to  the  door-step,  and  then  wound  off  in  separate  directions, 
Into  the  mass  of  embowered  shrubbery  on  the  right,  and  the 
peach-orchard  on  the  left ;  the  old  arbor,  with  its  luxuriant 
growth  of  woodbine the  large  sumii.3r-house,  with  its  knotted, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


aritrunmed,  rubtic  pilars  ;  the  little  fish-poi  d  and  fountain  ;  and 
especially  the  hower-garden,  during  the  last  season  nearly  restored, 
bv  Grertrude's  true  friend  George,  to  its  original  appearance  when 
ande-  her  superintendence;  ail  had  the  same  friendly,  familiar 
look  as  during  the  first  happy  summers,  when  Emily,  sitting  in 
her  garden-chair  beneath  the  wide-spreading  tulip-tree,  listened 
with  delight  to  the  cheerful  voice,  the  merry  laugh,  and  the  light 
Dtep  of  the  joyous  little  gardener,  who,  as  she  moved  about  in  her 
favorite  element  among  the  flowers,  seemed  to  her  afi'ectionate, 
loving  blind  friend  the  sweetest  Flora  of  them  all. 

Now  and  then,  a  stray  robin,  the  last  of  the  numerous  throng 
that  had  flocked  to  the  cherry-feast  and  departed  long  ago,  came 
hopping  across  the  paths,  and  over  the  neatly-trimmed  box,  lifting 
his  head,  and  looking  about  him  with  an  air  that  seemed  to  say. 
It  is  time  for  me,  too,  to  be  off."  A  family  of  squirrels,  on  the 
other  hand,  old  pets  of  Gertrude's,  whom  she  loved  to  watch  as 
they  played  in  ■  the  willow-tree  opposite  her  window,  were  just 
gathering  in  their  harvest,  and  were  busily  journeying  up  and 
down,  each  with  a  nut  in  its  mouth  (for  there  were  nut-trees  in 
that  garden,  and  quiet  corners,  such  as  squirrels  love).  Last 
year  they  did  not  come,  —  at  least,  they  did  not  stay, —  for  Mrs. 
Graham  and  her  new  gardener  voted  them  a  nuisance ;  but  this 
year  they  had  had  it  all  their  own  way,  and  were  laying  up  rich 
stores  for  the  coming  winter. 

The  old  house  itself  had  a  look  of  contentment  and  repose 
The  hall-door  stood  wide  open.  Mr.  Graham's  arm-chair  was  in 
its  usual  place  ;  Gertrude's  birds,  of  which  Mrs.  Ellis  had  taken 
excellent  care,  were  hopping  about  on  the  slender  per<^hes  of  the 
great  Indian  cage  which  hung  on  the  wide  piazza.  The  o^d 
house-dog  lay  stretched  in  the  sun,  sure  that  nobody  would  molest 
him.  Plenty  of  flowers  once  more  graced  the  parlor,  and  all 
was  very  still,  very  quiet,  and  very  comfortable ;  and  Mr.  Gra 
tiam  thought  so,  as  he  came  up  tne  steps,  patted  the  dog,  whistled 
lo  the  birds,  sat  down  in  the  arm-chan,  and  took  the  morning 
paper  from  ':he  hand  of  the  neat  housemaid,  who  came  bringing 
*t  across  the  hall. 

Th«  dear  old  place  was  the  dear  old  place  still.    Time  seemed 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


only  lend  it  additional  grace,  to  give  it  %n  air  of  greatei 
peace,  seclusion  and  repose. 

But  how  is  it  with  the  inmates  ? 

Mr.  Graham,  as  we  have  already  hinted,  has  been  having  new 
experiences ;  and  although  some  features  of  his  character  are  too 
closely  inwrought  to  be  ever  wholly  eradicated,  he  is,  in  many 
respects,  a  changed  man.  The  time  had  once  been  when  he 
would  have  resisted  courageously  every  innovation  upon  hia 
domestic  prejudices  and  comforts ;  but  old  age  and  ill-health  had 
somewhat  broken  his  spirit,  and  subdued  his  hitherto  invincible 
will.  Just  at  this  crisis,  too,  he  united  his  fortunes  with  one 
who  had  sufficient  energy  of  purpose,  combined  with  just  enough 
good-nature  and  tact,  to  gain  her  point  on  every  occasion  when 
she  thought  it  material  to  do  so.  She  indulged  him,  to  be  sure, 
in  his  favorite  hobbies,  allowed  him  to  continue  in  the  fond 
belief  that  his  sway  (when  he  chose  to  exercise  it)  was  indis* 
putable,  and  yet  contrived  to  decide  herself  in  all  important 
matters,  and  had,  at  last,  driven  him  to  such  extremity,  that  he 
had  taken  it  for  his  maxim  to  get  what  comfort  he  could,  and  let 
things  take  their  course. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  he  looked  forward  to  a  few  weeks 
of  old-fashioned  enjoyment  much  as  a  school-boy  does  to  his 
vacation. 

Emily  is  sitting  in  her  own  room,  carelessly  clad  in  a  loose 
wrapper.  She  is  paler  than  ever,  and  her  face  has  an  anxious, 
troubled  expression.  Every  time  the  door  opens,  she  starts, 
trembles,  a  sudden  flush  overspreads  her  face,  and  twice  already 
during  the  morning  she  has  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  Every 
exertion,  even  that  of  dressing,  seems  a  labor  to  her ;  she  cannot 
listen  to  Gertrude's  reading,  but  will  constantly  interrupt  her,  to 
ask  questions  concerning  the  burning  boat,  her  own  and  others 
rescue,  and  every  circumstance  connected  with  the  terrible  scene 
Df  agony  and  death.  Her  nervous  system  is  evidently  fearfully 
shattered,  and  Gertrude  looks  at  her  and  weeps,  and  wonders  to 
Bee  how  her  wonted  calmness  and  composure  have  forsaken  her. 

They  have  been  together  since  breakfa.^  but  Emily  will  not 
allow  Gertrude  to  stay  with  her  any  longer     She  must  go  away 


THU  LAMPLIGHTER. 


417 


«.nd  walk,  07,  at  least,  ch  xnge  the  scene.  Slie  may  come  back  in 
an  hour  and  help  t.er  dress  for  dinner,  —  a  ceremony  which  Miss 
Graham  wiL  by  no  means  omit,  her  chief  desire  seeming  to  be  to 
maintain  tV,e  appearance  of  health  and  happiness  in  the  presence 
of  her  father.  Gertrude  feels  that  Emily  is  in  earnest,  —  that 
ghe  really  wishes  to  be  left  alone ;  and,  believing  that,  for  the 
first  time,  ner  presence  even  is  burdensome,  she  retires  to  her 
own  room,,  leaving  Emily  to  bow  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and, 
for  the  third  time,  utter  a  few  hysterical  sobs. 

Gertrud3  is  immediately  followed  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  shuts  the 
door  seats  herself,  and,  with  a  manner  of  her  own,  alone  sufficient 
to  excite  alarm,  adds  to  the  poor  girl's  fear  and  distress  by 
declaiming  at  length  upon  the  dreadful  effect  the  recollection  of 
that  shocking  accident  is  having  upon  poor  Emily.  "  She 's  com- 
pletely upset,"  is  the  housekeeper's  closing  remark,  "  and  if  she 
don't  begin  to  get  better  in  a  day  or  two,  I  don't  hesitate  to  say 
there 's  no  knowing  what  the  consequences  may  be.  Emily  is 
feeble,  and  not  fit  to  travel ;  I  wish,  for  my  part,  she  had  staid  at 
home.  I  don't  approve  of  travelling,  especially  in  these  shocking 
dangerous  times." 

.  Fortunately  for  poor  Gertrude,  Mrs.  Ellis  is  at  length  sum- 
moned to  the  kitchen,  and  she  is  left  to  reflect  upon  the  strange 
circumstances  of  the  last  few  days,  —  days  fraught  to  her  with 
matter  of  thought  for  years,  if  so  long  a  time  had  been  allowed 
her.  A  moment,  however,  and  she  is  again  interrupted.  The 
housemaid  who  carried  Mr.  Graham  his  paper  has  something  for 
her,  too.  A  letter !  With  a  trembling  hand  she  receives  it, 
scarcely  daring  to  look  at  the  writing  or  post-mark.  Her  first 
thought  is  of  Willie  ;  but  before  she  could  indulge  either  a  hope 
or  a  fear  on  that  score  the  illusion  is  dispelled,  for,  though  the 
post-mark  is  New  York,  and  lie  might  be  ^here,  the  hand-writing 
is  w'lolly  strange.  Ar  e  ther  idea,  of  scarcely  less  moment,  flashes 
into  her  mind,  and,  hardly  able  to  breathe  from  the  violence  of 
the  emotions  by  which  she  i:  oppressed,  she  breaks  the  seal  and 
reada : 

"Mi  DARLiNC  Gerto-de  :  Mj  much-loved  child,  —  for  &uci 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


you  indeed  ^re,  though  a  father's  agony  of  fear  and  despair  aloils 
wrung  from  me  the  words  that  claimed  you.  It  was  no  madness 
that,  in  the  dark  hour  of  danger,  compelled  me  to  clasp  you  tc 
my  heart  and  call  you  mine.  A  dozen  times  before  had  I  been 
seized  by  the  same  emotion,  and  as  often  had  it  been  subdued 
and  smothered.  And  even  now  I  would  crush  the  promptings  of 
nature,  and  depart  and  weep  my  poor  life  away  alone;  but  the 
voice  within  me  has  spoken  once,  and  cannot  again  be  silenced. 
Had  I  seen  you  happy,  gay  and  light-hearted,  I  would  not  have 
asked  to  share  your  joy,  far  less  would  I  have  cast  a  shadow  on 
your  path ;  but  you  are  sad  and  troubled,  my  poor  child,  and 
your  grief  unitou^  ihe  tie  between  us  closer  than  that  of  kindred, 
and  makes  you  a  thousand  times  my  daughter;  for  I  am  a 
wretched,  weary  man,  and  know  how  to  feel  for  others'  woe. 

"  You  have  a  kind  and  a  gentk  heart,  my  child.  You  have 
vept  once  for  the  stranger's  sorrows,  —  will  you  now  refuse  to 
pity,  if  you  cannot  love,  the  solitary  parent,  who,  with  a  breaking 
lieart  and  a  trembling  hand,  writes  the  ill-fated  word  that  dooms 
him,  perhaps,  to  the  hatred  and  contempt  of  the  only  being  on 
earth  with  whom  he  can  claim  the  fellowship  of  a  natural  tie  « 
Twice  before  have  I  striven  to  utter  it,  and,  laying  down  my  pen, 
have  shrunk  from  the  cruel  task.  But,  hard  as  it  is  to  speak,  I 
find  it  harder  to  still  the  beating  of  my  restless  heart ;  therefore 
listen  to  me,  though  it  may  be  for  the  last  time.  Is  there  one 
being  on  earth  whom  you  shudder  to  think  of?  Is  there  one 
essociated  only  in  your  mind  with  deeds  of  darkness  and  of 
shame  ?  Is  there  one  name  which  you  have  from  your  childhood 
learned  to  abhor  and  hate ;  and,  in  proportion  as  you  love  your 
best  friend,  have  you  been  taught  to  shrink  from  and  despise  her 
worst  enemy  ?  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  Ah  !  I  tremble  to  think 
how  my  child  will  recoil  from  her  father  when  she  learns  the 
secret,  so  long  preserved,  so  sorrowfully  revealed,  that  he  is 

"  Philip  Amory  !  " 

Aa  Gci'trude  looked  up  when  she  had  finished  reading  thia 
strange  and  unintelligible  letter,  her  countenance  expressed  only 
complete  bewilderment  —  her  eyes  glistened  with  great  tesirs^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


419 


her  face  was  fiuslied  with  wonder  and  excitiffoent  bufc  she  waa 
evidently  at  a  total  loss  to  account  for  the  meaning  of  the 
stranger's  words. 

She  sat  for  an  instani  wildly  gazing  into  vacancy,  then,  spring- 
ing suddenly  up,  with  t\ie  letter  grasped  in  one  hand,  ran  across 
the  entry  towards  Emily's  room,  to  share  with  her  the  wonderfu] 
contents,  and  eagerly  ask  her  opinion  of  their  hidden  meaning. 
She  stopped,  however,  when  her  hand  was  on  the  door-lock 
Emily  was  already  ill,  —  the  victim  of  agitation  and  excitement, 
—  it  would  not  do  to  distress  or  even  disturb  her  ;  and,  retreating 
to  her  own  room  as  hastily  as  she  had  come,  Gertrude  once  more 
sat  down,  to  reperuse  the  singular  words,  aud  endeavor  to  find 
some  clue  to  the  mystery. 

That  Mr.  Phillips  and  the  letter-writer  were  identical  she  at 
once  perceived.  It  was  no  slight  impression  that  his  exclamation 
and  conduct  during  the  time  of  their  imminent  danger  on  board 
the  boat  had  left  upon  the  mind  of  Gertrude.  During  the  three 
days  that  had  succeeded  the  accident,  the  words  "  My  child !  my 
own  darling ! "  had  been  continually  ringing  in  her  ears  and 
haunting  her  imagination.  Now  the  blissful  idea  would  flash 
upon  her  that  the  noble,  disinterested  stranger,  who  had  risked  his 
life  so  daringly  in  her  own  and  Emily's  cause,  might  indeed  be 
her  father ;  and  every  fibre  of  her  being  had  thrilled  at  the 
thought,  while  her  head  grew  dizzy  and  confused  with  the  strong 
sensation  of  hope  that  agitated  and  almost  overwhelmed  her 
brain.  Then,  again,  she  had  repulsed  the  idea,  as  suggesting 
only  the  height  of  impossibility  and  folly,  and  had  compelled 
herself  to  take  a  more  rational  and  probable  view  of  the  matter, 
and  believe  that  the  stranger's  words  and  conduct  were  merely 
the  result  of  powerful  and  overwhelming  excitement,  or  possibly 
the  indications  of  a  somewhat  disordered  and  unsettled  imagin- 
ation,—  a  supposition  which  much  of  his  previous  behavior 
seemed  to  warrant. 

Her  first  inquiries,  on  recovering  ccBSciousness,  had  been  for 
the  preserver  of  Emily  and  Isabel,  but  he  had  disappeared ;  no 
trace  of  him  ^culd  be  obtained,  and  Mr.  Graham  soon  arriving 
ftnd  hurrying  them  from  the  neighborhood,  she  had  been  re« 


Tlii:  J.AMi'L[GHTE»v. 


idctantlj  competed  t-j  abandon  the  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  and 
was  consequentij  left  entirely  to  her  own  vague  snd  unsatisfac 
toTj  conjectures. 

The  same  motives  vrhich  now  induced  her  to  forbear  consulting 
Emily  concerning  the  mysterious  epistle  had  hitherto  prevented 
her  from  imparting  the  secret  of  Mr.  Phillip*'  inexplicable  lam 
guage  and  manner :  but  she  had  dwelt  upon  them  none  the  less, 
and  day  and  night  had  silently  pondered,  not  only  upon  recent 
>vents,  but  on  the  entire  demeanor  of  this  strange  man  towards 
Qcr,  ever  since  the  earliest  moment  of  their  acquaintance. 

The  first  perusal  of  the  letter  served  only  to  excite  and  alariu 
her.  It  neither  called  forth  distinct  ideas  and  impressions,  nor 
added  life  and  coloring  to  those  she  had  already  formed. 

But,  as  she  sat  for  more  than  an  hour  gazing  upon  the  page 
which  she  read  and  re-read  until  it  was  blistered  and  blotted  with 
the  great  tears  that  fell  upon  it,  the  varying  expression  of  her 
face  denoted  the  emotions  that,  one  after  another,  possessed  her; 
and  which,  at  last,  snatching  a  sheet  of  paper,  she  committed  to 
writing  with  a  feverish  rapidity,  that  betrayed  how  deeply,  almost 
fearfully,  her  whole  being,  heart,  mind  and  body,  bent  and  stag- 
gered beneath  the  weight  of  contending  hopes,  anxieties,  warmly 
enkindled  affections,  and  gloomy  upstarting  fears. 

My  DEAR,  DEAR  Father,  —  If  I  may  dare  to  believe  that  you 
are  so,  and,  if  not  that,  my  best  of  friends,  —  how  shall  I  write  to 
you,  and  what  shall  I  say,  since  all  your  words  are  a  mystery  ' 
Father  !  blessed  word  !  0,  that  my  noble  friend  were  indeed  my 
father  !  Yet  tell  me,  tell  me,  how  can  this  be  ?  Alas !  I  feel  a 
sad  presentiment  that  the  bright  dream  is  all  an  illusion,  an  error. 
I  never  before  remember  to  have  heard  the  name  of  Philip  Ampry. 
My  sweet,  pure  and  gentle  Emily  has  taught  me  to  love  all  the 
world;  and  hatred  and  contempt  are  foreign  to  her  nature,  and,  I 
trust,  to  my  own.  Moreover,  she'  has  not  an  enemy  in  the  wide 
world ;  never  had,  or  could  have.  One  might  as  well  war  with 
BD  angel  of  Heaven  as  with  a  creature  so  holy  and  lovely  as  sha 

Nor  bid  me  think  of  yourself  as  a  man  of  sin  and  crime.  I\ 
mnot  be.    It  would  be  wronging  a  noble  nature  tc  believe  it, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


421 


and  1  say  again  il  carnot  be.  Gladly  would  I  trid  myseH*"  t>jr 
repose  on  the  bosom  of  such  a  parent ;  gladly  v/ou-d  I  hail  the 
sweet  duty  of  consoling  Ihe  sorrows  of  one  so  self-sacrificing,  so 
kind,  so  generous ;  whose  life  has  been  so  freely  offered  for  me, 
and  for  others  whose  existence  was  dearer  to  me  than  my  own. 
When  you  took  me  in  your  arms  and  called  me  your  child,  your 
darling  child,  I  fancied  that  the  excitement  of  that  dreadful  scene 
had  for  the  moment  disturbed  your  mind  and  brain  so  far  as  to 
invest  me  with  a  false  identity,  —  perhaps  confound  my  image  with 
that  of  some  loved  and  absent  one.  I  now  believe  that  it  was  no 
sudden  madness,  but  rather  that  I  have  been  all  along  mistaken 
for  another,  whose  glad  office  it  may  perhaps  be  to  cheer  a  father's 
saddened  life,  while  I  remain  unrecognized,  unsought,  —  tho 
fatherless,  motherless  one  I  am  accustomed  to  consider  myself. 
If  you  have  lost  a  daughter,  God  grant  she  may  be  restored  to 
you,  to  love  you  as  I  would  do,  were  I  so  blessed  as  to  be  that 
daughter  !  And  I,  —  consider  me  not  a  stranger  ;  let  me  be  your 
child  in  heart;  let  me  love,  pray  and  weep  for  you;  let  me  pour 
out  my  soul  in  thankfulness  for  the  kind  care  and  sympathy  you 
have  already  given  me.  And  yet,  though  I  disclaim  it  all,  ana 
dare  not,  yes,  dare  not  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  thought  that 
you  are  otherwise  than  deceived  in  believing  me  your  child,  my 
heart  leaps  up  in  spite  of  me,  and  I  tremble  and  almost  cease  to 
breathe  as  there  flashes  upon  me  the  possibility,  the  blissful,  God 
given  hope !  No,  no  !  I  will  not  think  it,  lest  I  could  not  bear 
to  have  it  crushed  !  0,  what  am  I  writing  ?  I  know  not.  I 
cannot  endure  the  suspense  long ;  write  quickly,  or  come  to  me,  my 
father,  —  for  I  will  call  you  so  once,  though  perhaps  never  again 

"  Gertrude." 

Mr.  Phillips  —  or  rather  Mr.  Amory,  for  we  will  call  him  by  his 
true  name  —  had  either  forgotten  or  neglected  to  mention  his  ad- 
dress Gertrude  did  not  observe  this  circumstance  until  she  had 
folded  and  was  preparing  to  direct  her  letter.  She  then  recol- 
lected the  unfortunate  omission,  and  fcr  a  moment  experienced  a 
Bevere  pang  in  the  thoilght  that  her  communication  would  never 
reach  him  Sb3  was  reassured,  however,  on  ex  mining  the  post 
36 


*22 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEli. 


mark  which  was  evidently  New  York,  to  which  ph  je  she  unhes- 
itatingly addressed  her  missive;  and  then,  unwilling  to  h'ust  it  to 
other  hands,  tied  on  her  bonnet,  caught  up  a  veil  with  whiah  to 
protect  and  conceal  her  agitated  face,  and  hastened  to  deposit 
the  letter  herself  in  the  village  post-office. 

To  persons  of  an  excitable  and  imaginative  temperament  there 
is,  perhaps,  no  greater  or  more  painful  state  of  trial  than  that 
occasioned  by  severe  and  long-continued  suspense.  Yfhen  we 
know  precisely  what  we  have  to  bear,  we  can  usually  call  to  our 
aid  the  needed  strength  and  submission  ;  but  a  more  than  ordinary 
patience  and  forbearance  is  necessary  to  enable  us  calmly  and 
tranquilly  to  await  the  approach  of  an  important  crisis,  big  with 
'ivents  the  nature  of  which  we  can  have  no  means  of  foreseeing, 
but  which  will  inevitably  exercise  an  all-controlling  influence  upon 
the  life.  One  moment  hope  usurps  the  mastery,  and  promises  a 
happy  issue ;  we  smile,  breathe  freely,  and  banish  care  and 
anxiety;  but  an  instant  more,  and  some  word,  look,  or  even 
thought,  changes  the  whole  current  of  our  feelings,  clouds  take 
the  place  of  smiles,  the  chest  heaves  with  a  sudden  oppression, 
fear  starts  up  like  a  nightmare,  and  in  proportion  as  we  have 
cherished  a  confident  joy  are  we  plunged  into  the  torture  of  doubt 
or  the  agony  of  despair. 

Gertrude's  case  seemed  a  peculiarly  trying  one.  She  had  been, 
already,  for  a  week  past,  struggling  with  a  degree  of  suspense  and 
anxiety  which  agitated  her  almost  beyond  endurance  ;  and  now  a 
new  occasion  of  uncertainty  and  mystery  had  arisen,  involving  in 
its  issues  an  almost  equal  amount  of  self-questioning  and  torture. 
It  seemed  almost  beyond  the  power  of  so  young,  so  sensitive,  and 
so  inexperienced  a  girl,  to  rally  such  self-command  as  would 
enable  her  to  control  her  emotions,  disguise  them  from  observa- 
tion, and  compel  herself  to  endure  alone  and  in  silence  this  cruel 
dispensation  of  her  destiny. 

But  she  did  do  it,  and  biavely,  too.  Whethei  the  greatness 
of  the  emergency  called  forth,  as  it  ever  does  in  a  true-hearted 
woman,  a  proportionate  greatness  of  spirit ;  whether  the  com- 
plication of  her  web  of  destiny  compelled  her,  with  closed  hands 
and  a  submissive  will,  to  cease  all  efiorts  f  nr  its  disentanglement  • 


THE  LAxMPLIGHTEK. 


42a 


Dt,  whether,  wltli  that  humble  trust,  which  ever  grew  more  deep 
and  ardent  as  the  sense  of  her  own  helplessness  pressed  upon  her 
she  turned  for  help  to  Him  whose  strength  is  made  perfect  in  weak 
ness,  —  it  is  certain  that,  as  sho  took  her  way  towards  home  after 
depositing  the  letter  in  the  post-master's  hand,  the  firmness  of  her 
Btep,  the  calm  uplifting  of  her  eye,  gave  token  that  she  that  mo- 
ment conceived  a  brave  resolve,  —  a  resolve  which,  during  the  two 
days  that  intervened  ere  she  received  the  expected  reply,  never 
for  one  moment  deserted  her. 

And  it  was  this.  She  would  endeavor  to  suspend  for  the  pres- 
ent those  vain  conjectures,  that  firuitless  weighing  of  probabilities, 
which  served  only  to  harass  her  mind,  puzzle  her  understanding, 
and  destroy  her  peace ;  she  would  ponder  no  more  on  matters 
which  concerned  herself,  but  with  a  desperate  efibrt  turn  all  her 
mental  and  all  her  physical  energy  into  some  other  and  more  dis- 
interested  channel,  and  patiently  wait  until  the  cloud  which  hung 
over  her  fate  should  be  dissipated  by  the  light  of  truth,  and  ex- 
planation triumph  over  mystery. 

She  was  herself  surprised,  afterwards,  when  she  called  to  mind 
and  brought  up  in  long  array  the  numerous  household,  domestic 
and  friendly  duties  which  she  almost  unconsciously  accomplished 
in  those  few  days  during  which  she  was  wrestling  with  thoughts 
that  were  ever  struggling  to  be  uppermost,  and  were  only  kept 
down  by  a  force  of  will  that  was  almost  exhausting. 

She  dusted  and  rearranged  every  book  in  Mr.  Graham's  exten- 
sive library ;  unpacked  and  put  in  their  appropriate  places  every 
article  of  her  own  and  Emily's  long-scattered  wardrobe;  aided 
Mrs.  Ellis  in  her  labors  to  restore  order  to  the  china-closet  and  the 
-inen-press ;  and  many  other  neglected  or  long-postponed  duties 
flow  found  a  time  for  their  fulfilment. 

In  these  praiseworthy  efibrts  to  drive  away  such  reflections  atj 
were  fatal  to  her  peace,  and  employ  her  hands,  at  least,  if  not 
her  Heart,  in  such  services  as  might  pr  )mote  the  comfcrt  mi 
e^ell-being  of  otJiers,  let  us  leave  her  fer  lie  present. 


CHAPTER  XLlIi. 


'rhon  neither  dost  persuade  me  to  seek  we&lth 
For  empire'j  sake,  nor  empire  to  effect 
For  glory's  sake,  by  all  thy  argument. 

Milton. 

In  a  we.l-furnislied  private  parlor  of  one  of  those  first-clagf 
betels  in  which  New  York  city  abounds,  Philip  Amorj  sat  alone. 
It  was  evening.  The  window-curtains  were  drawn,  the  gas-lamps 
burning  brightly,  bringing  out  the  gorgeous  colors  of  the  gayly- 
tinted  carpet  and  draperies,  and  giving  a  cheerful  glow  to  the 
room,  the  comfortable  appearance  of  which  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  pale  countenance  and  desponding  attitude  of  its  solitary/ 
inmate,  who,  with  his  head  bowc:^  upon  his  hands,  leaned  upon  a 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 

He  had  sat  for  nearly  an  hour  in  precisely  ihe  same  position 
without  once  moving  or  looking  up.  With  his  left  hand,  upon 
which  his  forehead  rested,  he  had  thrust  back  the  wavy  masses  of 
his  silvered  hair,  as  if  their  light  weight  were  too  oppressive  for 
his  heated  brow ;  and  the  occasional  movement  of  his  fingers,  as 
they  were  slowly  passed  to  and  fro  beneath  the  graceful  curls 
alone  gave  evidence  that  he  had  not  fallen  asleep. 

Suddenly  he  started  up,  straightened  his  commanding  figure 
to  its  full  height,  and  slowly  commenced  pacing  the  room.  A 
I ic^ht  knock  at  the  door  arrested  his  measured  steps;  a  look  of 
nervous  agitation  and  annoyance  overspread  his  countenance ;  he 
again  flung  himself  into  his  chair,  and,  in  reply  to  the  servant's 
announcing  "  a  gentleman,  sir,  "  was  preparing  to  say,  *'  I  cannot 
be  interrupted,"  —  but  it  was  too  late;  the  visitor  had  already 
advanced  \s\thin  the  door,  which  the  waiter  q'lietly  closed  and 
retr  eatod. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEK. 


The  ne^  comer  —  a  young  man  —  stepped  quickly  and  eagerly 
forward,  but  checked  himself,  somewhat  abashed  at  the  unexpected 
coldness  of  the  reception  he  met  from  his  host,  who  rose  slowly 
and  deliberately  to  meet  his  guest,  while  the  cloud  upon  his  coun- 
tenance  and  the  frigid  manner  in  which  he  touched  the  young 
man  s  cordially-offered  hand  seemed  to  imply  that  the  latter's 
presence  was  unwelcome. 

<^  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Phillips,"  said  William  Sullivan,  for  it  was 
he  who  had  thus  unintentionally  forced  an  entrance  to  the  seclud- 
i3d  man,    "  I  am  afraid  my  visit  is  an  intrusion." 

Do  not  speak  of  it,"  replied  Mr.  Amory.  I  beg  you  will  be 
treated  ;  "  and  he  politely  handed  a  chair. 

Wilhe  availed  himself  of  the  offered  seat  no  further  than  to 
lean  lightly  upon  it  with  one  hand,  while  he  stiu  remained  stand- 
ing. "  You  are  changed,  sir,"  continued  he,  "  since  I  last  saw 
you." 

^'  Changed !  Yes,  I  am,"  returned  the  other,  absently. 
"  Your  health,  I  fear,  is  not —  " 

"  My  health  is  excellent,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  interrupting  his 
unfinished  remark.  Then  seeming  for  the  first  time  to  realize 
the  necessity  of  exerting  himself,  in  order  to  sustain  the  con- 
versation, he  added,  "  It  is  a  long  time,  sir,  since  we  met.  1 
have  not  yet  forgotten  the  debt  I  owe  you  for  your  timely  inter- 
ference between  me  and  Ali,  that  Arab  traitor,  with  his  rascally 
army  of  Bedouin  rogues." 

Do  not  name  it,  sir,"  replied  Willie.  "  Our  meeting  waa 
fortunate  indeed ;  but  the  benefit  was  as  mutual  as  the  danger  to 
which  we  were  alike  exposed." 

"  I  cannot  think  so.  You  seemed  to  have  a  most  excellent 
understanding  with  your  own  party  of  guides  and  attendants, 
Arabs  though  they  were." 

'*  True ;  I  have  had  some  experience  in  Eastern  travel,  and  usually 
know  how  to  manage  these  inflammable  spirits  of  the  desert.  But 
ut  the  time  I  joined  you  I  was  myself  entering  the  neighborhood 
of  hosth<i  tribes,  and  might  soon  have  found  our  party  overawed, 
'jui  for  the  advantage  of  having  joined  forces  with  yourself." 

^*  You  set  but  a  modest  valii:  upon  your  conciliatcry  p-»w«ra 
36=^ 


426  ™^  LAMPLIGHTEB.. 

;ay  young  man.  To  you,  wlio  are  so  well  acquainted  with  the 
facts  in  the  case,  I  can  hardly  claim  the  merit  of  frankness  for 
the  acknowledgment  that  it  was  only  my  own  hot  temper  and 
stubborn  will  which  exposed  us  both  to  the  imminent  danger 
which  you  were  fortunately  able  to  avert.  No,  no  !  you  must 
aot  deprive  me  of  the  satisfaction  of  once  more  expressing  my 
gratitude  for  your  invaluable  aid." 

"  You  are  making  my  visit,  sir,"  said  Willie,  smiling,  "  the  very 
reverse  of  what  it  was  intended  to  be.  I  did  not  come  here  this 
evening  to  receive,  but,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  to  render 
thanks.'' 

"  For  what,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Amory,  abruptly,  almost  roughly, 
You  owe  me  nothing !  " 

"  The  friends  of  Isabella  Clinton,  sir,  owe  you  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude which  it  will  be  impossible  for  them  ever  to  repay." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Sullivan ;  I  have  done  nothing  which 
places  that  young  lady's  friends  under  a  particle  of  obligation  to 
me." 

"  Did  you  not  save  her  life  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  nothing  was  further  from  my  intention." 

Willie  smiled ;  "  It  could  have  been  no  accident,  I  think,  which 
led  you  to  risk  your  own  life  to  rescue  a  fellow-passenger." 

"  It  was  no  accident,  indeed,  which  led  to  Miss  Clinton's  safety 
from  destruction.  I  am  convinced  of  that.  But  you  must  not 
thank  me  :  it  is  due  to  another  than  myself  that  she  does  not  now 
sleep  in  death." 

"  May  I  ask  to  whom  you  refer  ?  Your  words  are  mysterious.' 

"  I  refer  to  a  dear  and  noble  girl  whom  I  swam  to  that  burning 
wreck  to  save.  Her  veil  had  been  agreed  upon  as  a  signal  be- 
tween us.  That  veil,  carefully  thrown  over  the  head  of  Misa 
Clinton,  whom  I  found  clinging  to  the  spot  assigned  to  —  to  her 
whom  I  was  seeking,  deceived  me,  and  I  bore  in  safety  to  the 
shore  the  burden  which  I  had  ignorantly  seized  from  the  gaping 
waters,  leaving  my  own  darling,  who  had  offered  her  life  as  a 
sacrifice,  to  —  " 

C    'ot  to  die  ! '  exclaimed  Willie, 


THE  LAMPLIGJITEB 


427 


**  No  ;  ba  saved  by  a  jiiiracle.  Go  thank  her  for  Miss  Clin- 
ton's life  " 

"  I  thank  God,"  said  Willie,  with  fervor,  "  that  the  horrors  of 
Buch  scenes  of  destruction  are  half  redeemed  b}'  heroism  like 
that." 

The  hitherto  stern  countenance  of  Mr.  Amory  softened  as  hQ 
listened  to  the  young  man's  enthusiastic  outburst  of  admiration  at 
Gertrude's  noble  self-devotion. 

"  Who  is  she  ?    V/here  is  she  ?  "  continued  Willie. 

"  Ask  me  not ! "  replied  Mr.  Amory,  with  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience ;  I  cannot  tell  you,  if  I  would.  I  have  not  seen  her 
since  that  ill-fated  day." 

His  manner,  even  more  than  his  words,  seemed  to  intimate  an 
unwillingness  to  enter  into  any  further  explanation  regarding 
Isabel's  rescue,  and  Willie,  perceiving  it,  stood  for  a  moment  silent 
and  irresolute.    Then,  advancing  a  step  nearer,  he  said, 

"  Though  you  so  utterly  disclaim,  Mr.  Phillips,  any  participa- 
tion in  Miss  Clinton's  happy  escape,  I  feel  that  my  errand  here 
would  be  but  imperfectly  fulfilled  if  1  should  fail  to  deliver  the 
message  which  I  bring  to  one  who  was,  at  least,  the  final  means, 
if  not  the  original  cause,  of  her  safety.  Mr.  Clinton,  the  young 
lady's  father,  desired  me  to  tell  you  that,  in  saving  the  life  of  his 
only  surviving  child,  the  last  of  seven,  all  af  whom  but  herself 
were  doomed  to  an  early  death,  you  have  prolonged  his  own 
days,  and  rendered  him  grateful  to  that  degree  which  words  on 
his  part  are  powerless  to  express ;  but  that,  as  long  as  h.13  feeble 
life  is  spared,  he  shall  never  cease  to  bless  your  name,  and  pray  to 
Heaven  for  its  choicest  gifts  upon  you  and  those  who  dwell  next 
your  heart." 

There  was  a  slight  moisture  in  the  clear,  penetrating  eye  of 
Mr.  Amory,  but  a  bland  and  courteous  smile  upon  his  lip,  as  he 
said,  in  reply  to  Willie's  words : 

"  All  this  from  Mr.  Clinton  !  Yery  gentlemanly,  and  equally 
fiincere,  I  doubt  not ;  but  you  surely  do  not  mean  to  thank  me 
wholly  in  his  name,  my  young  friend.  Ixave  you  nothing  to  say 
for  your  own  sa\e  ?  " 

Willie  looked  surprised  at  the  question  :at  replied,  auhesi 


428 


TKE  lAMPLTGHTEll. 


tatingly,  "  Certainly,  sir;  as  one  of  a  large  circle  of  acquaiutancet 
and  friends,  whom  Miss  Clinton  honors  with  her  regard,  you  may 
rest  assured  that  my  admiration  and  gratitude  for  jour  disinter- 
ested exertions  are  unbounded ;  and,  not  only  on  her  account,  but 
on  that  of  every  other  whom  you  had  the  noble  satisfaction  of 
roscuino"  from  a  most  terrific  form  of  death  and  destruction." 

o 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  by  your  words,  that  you  speak  only  as  a 
friend  of  humanity,  and  that  you  felt  no  deep  personal  interest  in 
any  of  my  fellow-passengers  ?" 

"  1  was  unacquainted  with  nearly  all  of  them.  Miss  Clinton 
was  the  only  one  whom  I  had  known  for  any  greater  length  of 
time  than  daring  two  or  three  days  of  Saratoga  intercourse ;  but 
I  should  certainly  have  felt  deeply  grieved  at  her  death,  since  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  her  familiarly  in  her  childhood,  havo 
lately  been  continually  in  her  society,  and  am  aware  that  her 
father,  my  respected  partner,  an  old  and  invaluable  friend,  who 
is  now  much  enfeebled  in  health,  could  hardly  have  survived  so 
severe  a  shock  as  the  loss,  under  such  harrowing  circumstances,  of 
an  only  child,  whom  he  almost  idolizes." 

"  You  speak  very  coolly,  Mr.  Sullivan.  Are  you  aware  that 
the  prevailing  belief  gives  you  credit  for  feeling  more  than  a 
mere  friendly  interest  in  Miss  Clinton  ?  " 

The  gradual  dilating  of  Willie's  large  gray  eyes,  as  he  fixed 
them  inquiringly  upon  Mr.  Amory,  —  the  half-scrutinizing,  half- 
astonished  expression  which  crept  over  his  face,  as  he  deliberately 
seated  himself  in  the  chair,  which,  until  then,  he  had  not  occu- 
pied, —  were  sufficient  evidence  of  the  efi'ect  of  the  question  so 
unexpectedly  put  to  him. 

"  Sir,'  said  he,  "  I  either  misunderstood  you,  or  the  prevailing 
belief  is  a  most  mistaken  one." 

"  Then  you  never  before  heard  of  your  own  engagement  ?  " 

"  Never,  I  assure  you.  Is  it  possible  that  so  idle  a  report  has 
obtained  an  extensive  circulation  among  Miss  Clinton's  friends  ?  " 

"  Sufficiently  extensive  for  me,  a  mere  spectator  of  Saratoga 
life,  to  hear  it  not  only  whimpered  from  ear  to  ear,  but  )penlj 
proclaimed  as  a  fact  worthy  cf  credit." 

"  I  am  exceciiingly  sui  prised  and  vexed  at  what  you  tell  mCi'* 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


42b 


Baid  Wills!  %  looking  really  disturbed  and  chagrined.  "  Non- 
sensical and  false  as  such  a  rumor  is,  it  will  very  naturally,  if  ii 
should  reach  Miss  Clinton,  be  a  source  of  indignation  and  annov 
ance  to  her ;  and  it  is  on  that  account,  far  more  than  my  own, 
that  I  regret  the  circumstances,  which  have  probably  given  riae 
to  it." 

"  Do  you  refer  to  considerations  of  delicacy  on  the  lady's  part, 
or  have  you  the  modesty  to  believe  that  her  pride  would  be 
wounded  by  having  her  name  thus  coupled  with  that  of  her 
father's  junior  partner,  a  young  man  hitherto  unknown  to  fash- 
ionable circles  ?  But,  excuse  me ;  perhaps  I  am  stepping  on 
dangerous  ground,  and  your  own  pride  may  shrink  from  the 
frankness  of  my  speech." 

"  By  no  means,  sir  ;  you  wrong  me  if  you  believe  my  pride  to 
be  of  such  a  nature.  But,  in  answer  to  your  question,  I  have 
not  only  reference  to  both  the  motives  you  name,  but  to  many 
others,  when  I  assert  my  opinion  of  the  resentment  Miss  Clinton 
would  probably  cherish,  if  the  foolish  and  unwarranted  remarks 
you  mention  should  chance  to  reach  her  ears." 

"  Mr.  Sullivan,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to 
Willie's,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  great  interest,  "  are  you  sure 
you  are  not  standing  in  your  own  light  ?  Are  you  aware  that 
undue  modesty,  coupled  with  false  and  overstrained  notions  of 
refinement,  has  before  now  stood  in  the  way  of  many  a  man's 
good  fortune,  and  is  likely  to  interfere  largely  with  your 
own  ?  " 

How  so,  sir  ?  You  speak  in  riddles,  and  I  am  ignorant  of 
your  meaning." 

"  Handsome  young  fellows,  like  you,"  continued  Mr.  Aniory, 
"  can,  I  know,  often  command  almost  any  amount  of  property  lor 
the  asking ;  but  many  such  chances  rarely  occur  to  one  individ- 
ual ;  and  the  world  will  laugh  at  you,  if  you  waste  so  fair  an 
opportunity  as  that  which  you  now  enjoy." 

"  Opportunity  for  what  ?  You  surelv  do  not  mean  to  advice 
me  —  " 

"I  dc,  thoi  gh.  I  am  older  than  you  aro,  and  I  know  some, 
ihing  of  the  wc  rid.  A  fortune  is  not  made  ir  a  day  nor  is  monev 


m 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


a  thing  to  b*,  despised.  Mr.  Clinton's  life  is,  I  dare  say,  enfeebled 
and  almost  worn  out  in  toiling  after  that  wealth  which  will  soon 
be  the  inheritance  of  his  daughter.  She  is  young,  beautiful,  and 
the  pride  of  that  high  circle  in  which  she  moves.  Both  father 
ar.d  daughter  smik  upon  you;  —  you  need  not  look  disconcerted, 
—  I  speak  as  between  friends,  and  you  know  the  truth  of  that 
which  strangers  have  observed,  and  which  I  have  frequently  heard 
mentioned  as  beyond  doubt.  Why,  then,  do  you  hesitate  ?  I 
tYU:9t  you  are  not  deterred  from  taking  advantage  of  your  position 
by  any  romantic  and  chivalrous  sense  of  inferiority  on  your  part, 
or  unworthiness  to  obtain  so  fair  a  prize." 

"  Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Willie,  with  hesitation,  and  evident  em- 
barrassment, "  the  comments  of  mere  casual  acquaintances,  such 
as  the  greater  pari  of  those  with  whom  Miss  Clinton  associated 
in  Saratoga,  are  noi  in  the  least  to  be  depended  upon.  The 
peculiar  relations  in  which  I  stand  towards  Mr.  Clinton  have 
been  such  as  of  late  to  draw  me  into  constant  intercourse  both 
with  himself  and  his  daughter.  He  is  almost  entirely  without 
relatives,  has  scarcely  any  trustworthy  friend  at  command,  and 
therefore  appears,  perhaps,  to  the  world  more  favorably  disposed 
towards  me  than  would  be  found  to  be  the  case  should  I  aspire  to 
his  daughter's  hand.  The  lady  herself,  too,  has  so  many  admirers, 
that  it  would  be  the  height  of  vanity  in  me  to  believe  —  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Phillips,  springing  from  hia 
chair,  and,  as  he  commenced  pacing  the  room,  clapping  the  young 
man  heartily  upon  the  shoulder,  "  tell  that,  Sullivan,  to  a  greater 
novice,  a  more  unsophisticated  individual,  than  I  am  !  It  is  very 
becoming  in  you  to  say  so  ;  but  (though  I  hate  to  flatter)  a  few 
slight  reminders  will  hardly  harm  a  youth  who  has  such  a  very 
low  opinion  of  his  own  merits.  Pray,  who  was  the  gentleman 
for  whose  society  Miss  Clinton  was,  a  few  nights  since,  so  ready  to 
forego  the  music  of  Alboni,  the  brilliancy  of  the  well-lighted  and 
crowded  hall,  and  the  smiles  and  compliments  of  a  whole  train  of 
adorers  ?  With  whom,  I  say,  did  she,  In  comparison  with  all  this, 
prefer  a  quiet  mooiLlight  walk  in  the  garden  of  the  United  States 
Hote\  ?  ' 

\Sillie  hesitatod  a  moment,  while  endeavoring  to  rally  his 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEB. 


431 


recollection ;  then,  as  if  the  circumstance  and  its  consequences 
had  just  flashed  unon  him,  he  exclaimed,  "  I  remember !  —  That, 
then,  was  one  of  tne  causes  of  suspicion.  I  was,  on  that  occasion, 
a  messenger  merely,  to  summon  Miss  Isabel  to  the  bed-side  of  her 
father,  by  whom  I  had  been  anxiously  watching  for  hours,  and 
who,  on  awakening  from  a  long-protracted  and  almost  lethargic 
sleep,  which  had  excited  the  alarm  of  the  physician,  inquired  for 
his  daughter  with  such  eagerness,  that  I  did  not  hesitate  to  inter^ 
rupt  the  pleasure  of  the  evening,  and  call  her  to  the  post  of  duty, 
which  awaited  her  in  the  cottage  occupied  by  Mr.  Clinton,  at  the 
further  extremity  of  the  grounds,  to  which  I  accompanied  her  by 
moonlight." 

Mr.  Amory  almost  laughed  outright,  cast  upon  Willie,  for  the 
first  time,  that  look  of  sweet  benignity  which,  though  rare,  weL 
became  his  fine  countenance,  and  exclaimed,  "So  m.uch  for  water- 
ing-place gossip  !  I  believe  I  must  forbear  speaking  of  any  fur- 
ther evidences  of  a  tender  interest  manifested  by  either  of  you. 
But,  these  things  apart,  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  my 
dear  Sullivan,  that  though  the  young  lady's  heart  be  still,  like 
her  fortune,  in  the  united  keeping  of  herself  and  her  father,  there 
is  nothing  easier  than  for  yau  to  win  and  claim  them  both.  YoiSj 
are  a  rising  young  man,  and  possess  business  talent  indispens- 
able, I  hear,  to  the  elder  party ;  if,  with  your  handsome  face,  fig. 
ure  and  accomplishments,  you  cannot  render  yourself  equally  so 
to  the  younger,  there  is  no  one  to  blame  but  yourself" 

Willie  laughed.  "  If  I  had  that  object  in  view,  I  know  of 
no  one  to  whom  I  would  so  soon  come  for  encouragement  as  to 
you,  sir ;  but  the  flattering  prospect  you  hold  out  is  quite  wasted 
upon  me." 

"  Not  if  you  are  the  man  I  think  you,"  replied  Mr.  Amory, 
^1  cannot  believe  you  will  be  such  a  fool  (I  beg  your  pardon  for 
using  so  strong  a  term)  as  to  allow  yourself  to  be  blinded  to  the 
opportunity  you  see  held  out  before  you  of  making  that  appear- 
an^^e  in  society,  and  taking  that  stand  in  life,  to  which  your  birth, 
your  education  and  your  personal  qualities,  entitle  you.  Fouj 
father  was  a  respectable  clergyman  (always  an  honorable  profes^ 
Bion) ;  you  enjoyed  and  profited  by  every  advantage  in  your  jon^h. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


and  have  clone  yourself  such  credit  m  India  as  ^ould  enable  yon 
witK  plenty  of  capital  at  command,  to  take  the  lead  in  a  few  year* 
amon,o:  mercantile  men.  All  this,  indeed,  might  not,  probably 
^ould  not,  give  you  an  opportunity  to  mingle  freely  and  at  once 
in  the  highest  ranks  of  our  aristocracy ;  but  a  union  with  Miss 
Clinton  would  entitle  you  immediately  to  such  a  position  as  years 
of  assiduous  effort  could  hardly  win,  and  you  would  find  yourseli* 
at  twenty-five  at  the  highest  point  in  every  respect  to  which  you 
Eould  possibly  aspire ;  nor  have  you,  I  will  venture  to  say,  lived 
for  six  years  utterly  deprived  of  female  society,  without  becoming 
proportionately  susceptible  to  such  uncommon  grace  and  b<-nr+y  a. 
Miss  Clinton's. 

A  man  just  returned  from  a  long  residence  abroad  is  usually 
thought  to  be  an  easy  prey  to  the  charms  of  the  first  of  his  fair 
countrywomen  into  whose  society  he  may  chance  to  be  thrown ; 
and  it  can  scarcely  then  be  wondered  at,  if  you  are  subdued  by 
such  winning  attractions  as  are  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  this  land 
of  beautiful  women.  Nor  can  it  be  possible  that  you  have  for 
six  years  toiled  beneath  an  Indian  sun  without  learning  to  appre- 
ciate as  it  deserves  the  milooked-for  but  happy  and  honorable 
termination  of  your  toils,  the  easily-attained  rest  from  labor, 
whose  crowning  blessing  will  be  the  possession  of  your  beautiful 
bride." 

A  moment's  pause  ensued,  during  which  Mr.  Amory  sat  watch- 
ing the  countenance  of  Willie,  while  he  awaited  his  reply.  He 
was  not  kept  long  in  ignorance  of  the  effect  his  glowing  picture 
tiad  produced. 

"  Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Willie,  speaking  with  prompt  decision, 
and  a  nervous  energy  which  proved  how  heart-felt  were  the  word?* 
he  uttered,  "  I  have  not,  indeed,  spent  many  of  the  best  years  of 
my  life  toiling  beneath  a  burning  sun,  and  in  a  protracted  exile 
from  ail  that  I  held  most  dear,  without  being  sustained  and  encour- 
aged  by  high  hopes,  aims  and  aspirations.  But  you  misjudge  me 
greatly,  if  you  believe  that  the  ambition  that  has  hitherto  spurred 
me  on  can  find  its  gratification  in  those  rewards  which  you  have  so 
vividly  presented  to  my  imagination.  No,  sir  !  believe  me,  though 
these  advantages  may  seem  beyond  the  gr?.sp  of  most  men,  ^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


433 


aspire  to  sometbmg  higher  yet,  and  should  think  my  best  endeav- 
ors wasted  indeed,  if  my  hopes  and  v^ishes  tended  not  to  a  still 
more  glorious  good." 

"And  to  what  quarter  do  you  look  for  the  fulfilment  of  sucli 
flattering  prospects  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Amory,  in  an  ironical  tone  of  voice. 

**Not  to  the  gay  circles  of  fashion,"  replied  Willie,  *'nor  yet 
to  that  moneyed  aristocracy  which  awards  to  each  man  his  posi- 
tion in  life.  I  do  not  depreciate  an  honorable  standing  in  the 
eyes  of  my  fellow-m,en  ;  I  am  not  blind  to  the  advantages  of 
wealth,  or  insensible  to  the  claims  of  grace  and  beauty ;  but  these 
were  not  the  things  for  which  I  left  my  home,  and  it  is  not  to 
claim  them  that  I  have  now  returned.  Young  as  I  am,  I  have 
lived  long  enough,  and  seen  enough  of  trial,  to  lay  to  heart  the 
belief  that  the  only  blessings  worth  striving  for  are  something 
more  enduring,  more  satisfying,  than  doubtful  honors,  precarious 
wealth,  or  fleeting  smiles." 

To  what,  then,  may  I  ask,  do  you  look  forward?*^ 

*'  To  a  home,  and  that,  not  so  much  for  myself  —  though  I  have 
long  pined  for  such  a  rest  —  as  for  another,  with  whom  I  hope  to 
share  it.  A  year  since,"  —  and  Willie's  lip  trembled,  his  voice 
shook  with  emotion,  as  he  spoke,  —  *'  and  there  were  others,  beside 
that  dear  one  whose  image  now  entirely  fills  my  heart,  whom  I 
had  fondly  hoped,  and  should  deeply  have  rejoiced,  to  see  reaping 
the  fruits  of  my  exertions.  But  we  were  not  permitted  to  meet 
again ;  and  now,  — but  pardon  me,  sir ;  I  did  not  mean  to  intrude 
upon  you  my  private  affairs." 

Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Amory;  go  on  ;  I  deserve  some  degree  of 
confidence,  in  return  for  the  disinterested  advice  I  have  been  giv- 
ing you.  Speak  to  me  as  to  an  old  friend ;  I  am  much  interested 
in  what  you  say." 

It  is  long  since  I  have  spoken  freely  of  myself,"  said  Willie  ; 
*^  but  frankness  is  natural  to  me,  and,  since  you  profess  a  desire  to 
learn  somethiag  of  my  aim  in  life,  I  know  of  no  motive  I  have 
for  reserve  or  concealment.  But  my  position,  sir,  even  as  a  child, 
was  singular;  and  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  refer  to  it  for  a 
moment.  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  twelve  or  fourteen 
years  of  age  when  I  began  to  realize  the  necessity  which  rested 


434  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

upon  me.  My  widowed  motlier  and  hex  aged  father  ^cre  the 
only  relatives,  almost  the  only  friends,  I  knew.  One  was  foeble. 
delioate,  and  (luito  unequal  to  active  exertion;  the  other  was  old 
and  poor,  being  wholly  dependent  upon  the  small  salary  ha 
received  for  officiating  as  sexton  of  a  neighboring  church.  You 
are  aware,  for  I  have  mentionea  It  in  our  earlier  acquamtanv^e 
abroad,  that,  in  spite  of  these  circumstances,  they  maintained  me 
for  several  years  in  comfort  and  decency,  and  gave  me  an  excel- 
limt  education. 

At  an  age  when  kites  and  marbles  are  wont  to  be  all -engross- 
ing  I  became  possessed  with  an  earnest  desire  to  relieve  my 
mother  and  grandfather  of  a  part  of  their  burden  of  care  and 
labor;  aiY\  with  this  purpose  in  view,  sought  and  obtamed  a 
situation,  in  which  I  was  well  treated  and  well  paid,  and  which 
I  retained  until  the  death  of  my  excellent  master.  Then,  for  a 
time,  I  felt  bitterly  the  want  of  employment,  became  desponding 
and  unhappy ;  a  state  of  mind  which  was  fostered  by  constant 
association  with  one  of  so  melancholy  and  despairing  a  tempera- 
ment as  my  grandfather,  who,  having  met  with  great  disappoint- 
ment in  life,  held  out  no  encouragement  to  me,  but  was  forever 
hinting  at  the  probability  of  my  utterly  failing  in  eveiy  scheme 
for  success  and  advancement. 

-I  bitterly  regretted,  at  the  time,  the  depressing  influence  of 
the  old  man's  innuendoes;  but  I  have  since  thought  they  answered 
a  good  purpose ;  for  nothing  urged  me  on  to  ever-increasing 
effo'^ls  as  the  indomitable  desire  to  prove  the  mistaken  nature  of 
his  gloomy  predictions,  and  few  things  have  given  me  more  satis- 
factron  than  the  assurances  I  have  frequently  received  during 
the  few  past  years  that  he  came  at  last  to  a  full  conviction  that  my 
prosperity  was  established  beyond  a  doubt,  and  that  one  of  his  ill- 
fated  family  was  destined  to  escape  the  trials  and  evils  of  poverty. 

My  mother  was  a  quiet,  gentle  woman,  small  in  person,  .vith 
great  simplicity  and  some  reserve  of  manner.  She  loved  me  like 
her  own  soul;  she  taught  me  everything  I  know  of  goodness; 
there  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  have  made  for  her  happiness. 
would  have  died  to  save  her  life ;  but  we  shall  never  meet  again  m 
this  world,  and  I  —  I  —  am  learning  to  be  resigned ! 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


435 


For  these  two,  and  one  other,  whom  I  shall  speak  of  pres- 
mly,  I  was  ready  to  go  away,  and  strive  and  suffer  „and  be 
patient.  The  opportunity  came,  and  I  embraced  it,  And  soon 
One  great  object  of  my  ambition  was  won.  I  was  able  to  earn  a 
competency  for  myself  and  for  them.  In  the  course  of  time,  lux- 
aries  even  were  within  my  means,  and  I  had  begun  to  look  forward 
to  a  not  very  distant  day,  when  my  long-looked-for  return  sliDuld 
render  our  happiness  perfect  and  complete,  I  little  thought,  then, 
that  the  sad  tidings  of  my  grandfather's  death  were  on  their  way, 
and  the  news  of  my  mother's  slow  but  equally  sure  decline  so 
soon  to  follow. 

'  It  is  true,  however,  they  are  both  gone  ;  and  I  should  now  be 
go  solitary  as  almost  to  long  to  follow  them,  but  for  one  other, 
whose  love  will  bind  me  to  earth  so  long  as  she  is  spared." 

And  she  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Amory,  with  an  eagerness  which 
Willie,  engrossed  with  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  observe. 

Is  a  young  girl,"  continued  Willie,  ^*  without  family,  wealth, 
or  beauty  ;  but  with  a  spirit  so  elevated  as  to  make  her  great,  a 
heart  so  noble  as  to  make  her  rich,  a  soul  so  pure  as  to  make  her 
beautiful." 

Mr.  Amory's  attitude  of  fixed  attention,  his  evident  waiting  to 
hear  more,  emboldened  Willie  to  speak  still  further. 

"  There  lived  in  the  same  house  which  my  grandfather  occu- 
pied an  old  man,  a  city  lamplighter.  He  was  poor,  poorer  even 
than  we  were,  but,  I  will  venture  to  say,  there  never  was  a  better 
or  a  kinder-hearted  person  in  the  world.  One  evening,  when 
engaged  in  his  round  of  duty,  he  picked  up  and  brought  home  a 
little  ragged  child,  whom  a  cruel  woman  had  just  thrust  into  the 
street  to  perish  with  cold,  or  die  a  more  lingering  death  in  the 
alms-house  ;  for  nothing  but  such  devoted  care  as  she  received  from 
my  mother  and  Uncle  True  (so  v/e  always  called  our  old  friend) 
could  have  saved  the  feeble,  half-starved  creature  from  the  conse- 
quences of  long-continued  exposure  and  ilktreatment.  Through 
their  unwearied  watching  and  efforts  she  was  spared,  to  repay  in 
after  years  all,  and  more  than  all,  the  love  bestowed  upon  her. 
She  was  at  that  time  miserably  thin  and  attenuated,  sallow,  and 
extremely  plain  in  her  appearance,  besides  being  possessed  of  a 


THE  lAMPLIGHTER. 

violent  temper,  which  she  had  never  been  taught  to  restrain,  and 
a  stubbornness  will,  which  undoubtedly  resulted  from  her  hav 
ino-  lonn  lived  in  opposition  to  all  the  world. 

°'A11  this,  however,  did  not  repel  Uncle  True,  under  whose 
lovin"-  influence  new  and  hitherto  undeveloped  virtues  and  capaci- 
ties soon  began  to  manifest  themselves.  In  the  atmosphere  of 
love  in  which  she  now  lived,  she  soon  became  a  changed  being; 
and  when,  in  addition  to  the  example  and  precepts  taught  her  at 
home,  a  divine  light  was  shed  upon  her  life  by  one  who,  herself 
Bitting  in  darkness,  casts  a  halo  forth  from  her  own  spirit  to  ilia- 
Eiine°those  of  all  who  are  blessed  with  her  presence,  she  became 
what  she  has  ever  since  been,  a  being  to  love  and  trust  for  a  life- 
time. For  myself,  there  were  no  bounds  to  the  affection  I  soon 
came  to  cherish  for  the  little  girl,  to  whom  I  was  first  attracted 
by  compassion  merely. 

"  We  were  constantly  together  ;  we  had  no  thoughts,  no  studies, 
no  pleasures,  sorrows,  or  interests  that  were  not  shared.    I  was 
her  teacher,  her  protector,  the  partner  of  all  her  childish  amuse- 
ment«  •  and  she,  on  her  part,  was  by  turns  an  advising,  con- 
soling,' sympathizing,  and  encouraging  friend.     In   this  latter 
character  she  was  indispensable  to  me,  for  she  had  a  hopeful 
nature,  and  a  buoyancy  of  spirit  which  often  imparted  itself  to  me 
I  well  remember  when  my  kind  employer  died,  and  I  was  plunged 
in  boyish  <^ri3f  and  despair,  the  confidence  and  energy  with 
which  she,  then  very  young,  inspired  me.    The  relation  between 
her  and  Uncle  True  was  beautiful.    Boy  as  I  was,  I  could  not 
but  view  with  admiration  the  old  man's  devoted  love  for  the 
adopted  darl'ing  of  his  latter  years  (his  birdie,  as  he  always  called 
her),  and  the  deep  and  grateful  affection  which  she  bore  him  m 
return. 

"  During  the  first  few  years  she  was  wholly  dependent  upon 
him  and  seemed  only  a  fond,  affectionate  child  ;  but  a  time  came, 
at  last,  when  the  case  was  reversed,  and  the  old  man,  stricken 
with  disease,  became  infirm  and  helpless.  It  was  then  that  the 
beauty  of  her  woman's  nature  shone  forth  triumphant;  aad,  0, 
how  gently,  ciiild  as  she  was,  she  guided  his  steps  as  he  descended 
W  the  grave !    Often  have  I  goBP  ^      room  at  midnight,  fearing 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


437 


lesfc  he  mighl  be  in  need  of  care  which  she,  in  her  youth  and  in- 
exporieuce,  would  be  unable  to  render,  and  never  shall  I  forget  the 
little  figure,  seated  calmly  by  his  bed-side,  at  an  h(ur  when  many 
of  her  years  would  be  shrinking  from  fears  conjured  up  by  the 
night  and  the  darkness,  with  a  lamp  dimly  burning  on  a  table  be- 
fore her,  and  she  herself,  with  his  hand  in  hers,  sweetly  soothino* 
his  wakefulness  by  her  loving  words,  or  with  her  eyes  bent  upon 
her  little  Bible,  reading  to  him  holy  lessons. 

**  But  all  her  care  could  not  prolong  his  life  ;  and,  shortly  bti- 
fore  I  went  to  India,  he  died,  blessing  God  for  the  peace  imparted 
to  him  through  his  gentle  nurse. 

It  Vvas  my  task  to  soothe  our  little  Gerty's  sorrows,  and  do 
what  I  could  to  comfort  her;  an  office  which,  before  I  left  the 
country,  I  was  rejoiced  to  transfer  to  the  wiliing  hands  of  the 
excellent  blind  lady  who  had  long  befriended  both  her  and  Uncle 
True.  Before  I  went  away,  I  solemnly  committed  to  Gerty, 
who  had  in  one  instance  proved  herself  both  willing  and  able, 
the  care  of  my  mother  and  grandfather.  She  promised  to  be 
faithful  to  the  trust ;  and  nobly  was  that  promise  kept.  In  spite 
of  the  unkindness  and  deep  displeasure  of  Mr.  Graham  (the  blind 
lady's  father),  upon  whose  bounty  she  had  for  a  long  time  been 
dependent,  she  devoted  herself  heart  and  hand  to  the  fulfilment 
of  duties  which  in  her  eyes  were  sacred  and  holy.  In  spite  of 
sujffering,  labor,  watching,  and  privation,  she  voluntarily  forsook 
ease  and  pleasure,  and  spent  day  and  night  in  the  patient  service 
of  friends  whom  she  loved  with  a  greater  love  than  a  dau^-hter's, 
for  it  was  that  of  a  saint. 

With  all  my  earnestness  of  purpose,  I  could  never  have  done 
half  that  she  did ;  I  might  have  loved  as  much,  but  none  but 
a  woman's  heart  could  have  conceived  and  planned,  none  but 
a  woman's  hand  could  have  patiently  executed,  the  deeds  that 
Gertrude  wrought.  She  was  more  than  a  sister  to  me  bcfaie; 
she  was  my  constant  correspondent,  my  dearest  friend  ;  now  she  is 
bound  to  me  by  ties  that  are  not  of  earth  nor  of  time." 
87* 


CHAPTER  XLTV. 

Aild  opportunity  I  here  liave  had 

To  try  thee,  sift  thee,  and  confess  have  found  the* 

Proof  against  all  temptation. 

Milton 

"  Obrtaixly,"  said  Mr,  Amory,  who  had  waited  patiently  foi 
th«  couclusion  of  Willie's  story,  "  I  can  well  understand  that.  A 
man  of  a  generous  spirit  could  hardly  fail  to  cherish  a  deep  and 
la^tin.^  gratitude  fcr  one  who  devoted  herself  so  disinterestedly  to 
a  tryhi-  and  toilsome  attendance  upon  the  last  hours  of  beloved 
friends,°to  whose  wants  he  hiiiself  was  prevented  from  minister- 
in<r;  and  the  warmth  with  which  you  eulogize  this  gnd  does  you 
credit  Sullivan.  She  must,  too,  be  a  young  person  of  great  excel- 
lence '  to  have  fulfilled  so  faithfully  and  well  a  promise  of  such 
remote  date  that  it  would  probably  have  been  ignored  by  a  less 
disinterested  friend.  But  do  not  let  any  enthusiastic  sense  of 
honor  induce  you  to  sacrifice  yourself  on  the  shrine  of  gratitude. 

"  I  shall  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  a  young  man  who  has  had 
the  ambition  to  mark  out.  and  the  energy  to  pursue,  such  a  course 
on  the  road  to  fortune  as  you  have  thus  far  successfully  followed, 
can  in  his  sober  senses,  have  made  a  serious  resolve  to  unite  him- 
self and  his  prospects  with  an  insignificant  little  playmate,  of 
•inacknowledged  birth,  without  beauty  or  fortune,  unless  there  is 
already  a  standing  engagement,  by  which  he  is  unwdhngly  bound 
or  he  allows  himself  to  be  drawn  on  to  matrimony  by  the  beliet 
that  the  highest  compliment  he  can  pay  (namely,  the  offer  of  him- 
self) will  alone  cancel  the  immense  obligations  under  which  ho 
labors.    May  I  ask  if  you  are  already  shackled  by  promises  1 " 
"  I  am  not,"  replied  Willie. 

"  Then  Usten  to  me  a  moment.    Mj  motives  are  friendly  when 


THE  LAMPLTGIIl'ER. 


139 


I  beg  you  not  to  act  rashly  in  a  raattcr  which  will  affect  the  hap* 
piness  of  your  whole  life ;  and  to  hear,  —  with  patience,  too,  if  you 
can,"  for  Willie  already  gave  symptoms  of  restlessness^™ the 
few  v^ords  which  I  have  to  say  on  the  subject. 

"  You  are  much  mistaken,  my  young  friend,  if  you  believe  that 
^he  happiness  of  Gerty,  as  you  call  her  (a  very  ugly  name,  by 
the  way),  can  be  insured,  any  more  than  your  own,  by  an  ili» 
assorted  union,  of  which  you  will  both  find  occasion  to  repent. 
You  have  not  seen  her  for  six  years ;  think,  then,  of  all  that 
has  happened  in  the  mean  time,  and  beware  how  you  act  with 
precipitation. 

You  have  all  this  time  been  livincy  abroad,  eno^aoed  in  active 
life,  growing  in  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  its  various  phases 
of  society.  In  India,  to  be  sure,  you  witnessed  a  mode  of  life 
wholly  different  from  that  which  prevails  with  us,  or  in  European 
cities;  but  the  independence,  both  of  character  and  manner, 
which  you  there  acquired,  fitted  you  admirably  for  the  polished 
siihere  of  Parisian  life,  to  which  you  were  so  suddenly  intro- 
duced, and  in  which,  I  may  say  without  flattery,  you  met  with 
Buch  marked  success. 

Notwithstanding  the  privilege  you  enjoyed  of  being  pre- 
sented in  polite  circles  as  the  friend  of  a  man  so  well  known  and 
so  much  respected  as  Mr.  Clinton,  you  cannot  have  been  insensi- 
ble to  the  marked  attentions  bestowed  upon  you  by  American  resi- 
dents abroad,  or  unaware  of  the  advantage  you  enjoyed,  on  your 
return  home,  from  having  been  known  as  the  object  of  such 
favor.  Though  not  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  you  in  Paris,  I  was 
there  at  the  same  time  with  yourself  and  had  some  opportunity  of 
being  acquainted  with  facts  which  I  am  sure  you  would  have  too 
much  modesty  to  acknowledge. 

*•  That  you  were  not  wholly  devoid  of  taste  for  choice  society  it 
is  easy  to  infer;  since,  otherwise,  you  would  never  have  been  able 
to  render  yourself  an  ornament  to  it,  or  even  maintain  a  place 
within  its  precincts.  It  is  also  equally  evident  that  your  pride  must 
have  been  flattered,  an«l  your  views  in  life  somewhat  biased,  by 
the  favorable  reception  you  have  met,  both  abroad  and  at  home, 
not  only  from  your  own  sex,  but  especially  from  the  young,  fair, 


440  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

End  beautifal  women  who  have  honored  you  with  their  smiles,  anoi 
among  whom  she  whose  name  the  crowd  already  associates  witL 
your  own  stands  pre-eminent. 

When  I  think  of  all  this,  and  of  those  pecuniary  hopes  you 
may  so  reasonably  indulge,  and  on  which  I  have  already  dilated, 
and  then  imagine  you  suddenly  flinging  all  these  aside,  to  chival- 
rously throw  yourself  at  the  feet  of  your  mother's  little  narse,  I 
confess  I  find  it  impossible  to  keep  silent,  and  avoia  reminding 
you  of  the  reaction  that  must  come,  the  disappointment  that  must 
ensue,  on  finding  yourself  at  once  and  forever  shut  x>ut  from  par- 
ticipation in  pleasures  which  have  been  within  yxiur  reach,  and 
voluntarily  discarded. 

You  must  remember  that  much  of  the  coii.%deration  which  is 
paid  to  a  young  bachelor  of  growing  prospects  ceases  to  be 
awarded  to  him  after  marriage,  and  is  i,ever  extended  to  his 
bride,  unless  she  be  chosen  from  the  seLcx  circles  to  which  he 
aspires.  This  unportioned  orphan,  wiln  whom  you  propose  to 
ghare  your  fate,  —  this  little  patient  scht^ol-mistress  —  " 

I  did  not  tell  you  she  had  ever  rjeen  a  teacher  !  "  exclaimed 
Willie,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  xtp  and  down  the  room,  which 
latterly  he  had  been,  in  his  turn,  i^acing  impatiently,  while  he  hs- 
tened  to  Mr.  Amory's  words,  —  '-'!  did  not  tell  you  anything  of 
the  sort !    How  did  you  know  it 

Mr.  Amory,  who  by  his  n^^giigence  had  thus  betrayed  more 
knowledge  than  he  had  been  supposed  to  possess,  hesitated  a 
moment,''but  quickly  recovering  himself,  answered,  with  'apparent 
frankness,  — 

To  tell  the  truth,  SulHvan,  I  have  seen  the  girl,  in  company 
with  an  old  doctor." 

«'Dr.  Jeremy?"  asked  Willie,  quickly. 
The  same." 

When  did  you  see  her?    How  did  it  happen 

Do  not  question  me  I "  said  Mr.  Amory,  petulantly,  as  if  the 
matter  were  of  little  consequence,  and  he  did  not  choose  to  bo 
interrogated.  happened  to  see  the  old  gentleman  in  tho 

course °of  my  travels,  and  this  Gertrude  Flint  was  with  him.  Ho 
told  me  a  few  facts  concerni'-g  her ;  —  nothing  to  her  disadvantage^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


441 


however;  m  warang  you  against  a  mis-alliance,  I  speak  only  in 
general  terms." 

Willie  looked  at  Mr.  Amory  in  a  half-scrutinizing,  half- won* 
dering  manner,  and  appeared  on  the  point  of  persisting  in  his 
attempt  to  learn  further  particulars ;  but  Mr.  Amory,  taking  up 
the  thread  of  his  previous  conversation,  went  on,  without  giving 
him  a  chance  to  speak. 

This  Gerty,  as  I  was  saying,  Sullivan,  will  be  a  dead  weight 
upon  your  hands,  a  constant  drawback  to  all  your  efforts  for  the 
attainment  of  fashionable  society,  in  which  it  is  hardly  to  be 
expected  she  can  be  exactly  fitted  to  shine.  You  yourself  pro- 
nounce her  to  be  without  wealth  or  beauty  ;  of  her  family  you 
know  nothing,  and  have  certainly  little  reason  to  expect  that,  if 
discovered^  it  would  do  her  any  credit.  I  believe,  then,  that  I 
only  speak  from  the  dictates  of  common  sense,  when  I  bid  you 
beware  how  you  make,  in  the  disposal  of  yourself,  such  a  very 
unequal  bargain/' 

*'I  am  very  willing  to  believe,  sir,"  said  Willie,  resuming  his 
?eat  and  settling  himself  into  a  composed  attitude,  ''that  the  ar- 
guments you  have  so  powerfully  brought  to  bear  upon  a  question 
most  important  to  my  welfare,  are  grounded  upon  calm  reasoning, 
and  a  disinterested  desire  to  promote  my  prosperity.  I  confess 
you  are  the  last  man,  judging  from  our  short,  but,  for  the  length 
of  time,  intimate  acquaintance,  from  whom  I  should  have  ex- 
pected such  advice ;  for  I  had  believed  you  so  independent  of  the 
opinion  and  so  indifferent  to  the  applause  of  the  world,  that  they 
would  weigh  but  little  with  you  in  forming  estimates  for  the  guid* 
ance  of  others. 

Still,  though  your  suggestions  have  failed  to  influence  or  in 
the  least  degree  change  my  sentiments  or  intentions,  I  fully  appre- 
ciate and  thank  you  for  the  sincerity  and' earnestness  with,  which 
you  have  sought  to  mould  my  judgment  by  your  own,  and  will 
reply  to  your  arguments  with  such  frankness  as  will,  I  think,  per- 
suade you  that,  so  far  from  following  the  impulses  of  a  blind  enthu- 
siasm, to  plunge  with  haste  and  precipitation  into  a  course  of  actioa 
hereafter  to  be  deplored,  I  am  actuated  by  feelings  which  reasoa 
I       approves,  and  which  have  already  stood  the  test  of  experience. 


442 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


"  fou  speak  truly  when  you  impute  to  me  a  natural  taste  foi 

good  society;  a  taste  wliicb  poverty,  and  ihe  retireaient  in  wblcb 
my  boyhood  was  passed,  gave  me  little  opportunity  to  manifest, 
but  which  had,  nevertheless,  no  small  influence  in  determming  my 
aims  and  ambition  in  life.  The  fine  houses,  equipages,  and  clothes 
of  the  rich,  had  far  less  charm  to  my  fancy  than  the  high-bred 
ease,  refinement,  and  elegance  of  mcinner,  which  distinguished 
some  few  of  their  owners  who  chanced  to  come  under  my  observa- 
tion ;  and,  much  as  I  desired  the  attainment  of  wealth  for  the  sake 
of  its  own  intrinsic  advantages,  and  the  means  it  would  aff}rd  of 
coLtributing  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  others,  it  would  hav9 
seemed  to  me  divested  of  half  its  value,  should  it  fail  to  secure  to 
its  possessor  a  free  admittance  to  the  polite  and  polished  circle? 
upon  which  I  looked  with  admiring  eyes. 

"  I  needed  not,  therefore,  the  social  deprivations  I  experienced  in 
India  to  prepare  me  to  enter  with  eager  zest  into  the  excitement 
and  pleasure  of  Parisian  life,  to  which,  through  the  kindness  and 
partiality  of  Mr.  Clinton,  I  obtained,  as  you  are,  it  seems,  aware, 
a  free  and  immediate  introduction. 

"  It  is  true  I  was  summoned  thither  at  a  time  when  my  spirits 
bad  been  for  months  struggling  with  the  depression  occasioned  by 
sad  news  from  home,  and  had  not,  therefore,  the  least  disposition 
to  avail  myself  of  Mr.  Clinton's  politeness ;  but  the  feebleness  of 
his  health,  and  his  inability  to  enter  largely  into  the  gayeties  of 
the  place,  compelled  me  continually  to  offer  myself  as  an  escort 
to  his  daughter,  w^ho,  fond  of  society,  and  reluctant  to*  submit  to 
any  exclusion  from  it,  invariably  accepted  my  services,  thus  draw- 
ing me  into  the  very  whirl  and  vortex  of  fashionable  life  ;  in  which, 
I  confess,  I  soon  found  much  to  flatter,  bewilder,  and  intoxicate. 
I  could  not  be  insensible  to  the  privileges  so  unexpectedly  accorded 
to  me ;  nor  could  my  vanity  be  wholly  proof  against  the  assaults 
made  upon  it.  Nor  was  my  manliness  of  character  alone  at  stake. 
My  position  in  fashionable  circles  threw  other  and  more  serious 
temptations  in  my  way.  The  soundness  of  principle  and  sim- 
plicity of  habit  implanted  in  me  from  childhood,  and  liitherto 
preserved  intact,  soon  found  themselves  at  stake.  I  had  withstood 
.every  kind  of  gross  temptation,  but  my  new  and  refined  aasociatea 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


443 


now  presonted  it  to  me  in  that  more  subtle  form  wliich  often 
proves  a  snare  to  tliose  over  whom,  had  it  come  without  disguise, 
it  would  have  no  power.  The  wine-cup  could  never  have  enticed 
me  to  the  coai'se  and  disgusting  scenes  of  drunken  revelry  ;  but, 
held  in  the  hands  of  the  polished  gentlemen,  who  had^  but  a  moment 
l^efore,  been  the  recipients  of  popular  favor  and  women's  smiles, 
it  sparkled  with  a  richer  lustre,  and  its  bitter  dregs  were  forgotten. 
The  professed  gamester,  the  well-known  rogue,  would  in  vain  have 
sought  me  for  an  accomplice ;  but  I  was  not  equallj  on  my  guard 
against  the  danger  which  awaited  me  from  other  and  unexpected 
quarters;  for  how  could  I  believe  that  my  friends,  Mr.  Clinton's 
friends,  the  ornaments  of  the  sphere  in  which  they  moved,  would 
unfairly  win  my  money,  involve  me  in  entanglements,  and  lead  me 
on  to  ruin  ?  I  almost  wonder,  as  1  look  back  upon  the  few  first 
weeks  of  my  residence  in  Paris,  that  I  did  not  finally  fall  a  victim 
to  some  one  of  the  numerous  snares  that  were,  on  every  side 
spread  for  my  destruction,  and  into  which  my  social  disposition, 
my  fearless,  and,-  at  the  'same  time,  unsophisti:atei  nature  rendered 
me  especially  prone  to  fall.  Nothing,  I  am  persuaded,  but  the 
recollection  of  my  pure-minded  and  watcbful  mother,  whose  recent 
death  had  given  new  freshness  and  life  to  the  memory  of  her  many 
warning  counsels,  —  at  the  time  they  were  bestowed  deemed  bj 
me  unnecessary,  but  now,  in  the  moment  of  danger,  springing  up 
and  arming  themselves  with  a  solemn  meaning,  —  nothing  but  the 
consciousness  of  her  gentle  spirit,  ever  hovering  around  my  path, 
saddened  by  my  conflicts,  rejoicing  in  my  triumphs,  could  ever 
have  given  me  courage  and  perseverance  to  resist,  shun,  and 
finally  escape  altogether,  the  pitfalls  into  which  my  unwary  steps 
would  have  plunged  me. 

These  darker  evils,  however,  successfully  combated  and  sub- 
dued, there  were  others  of  scarcely  less  magnitude  awaiting  me, 
and  in  which  much  of  my  future  well-being  and  usefulness  wero 
involved.  In  the  unvaried  round  of  pleasure  in  which  my  days, 
and  nights  even,  were  frequently  passed,  there  was  much  to  grat- 
ify my  seMove,  foster  my  ambition,  and  annihilate  every  worthier 
amotion.  And  here,  believe  me,  my  safety  lay  in  my  success. 
Had  I  approaehed  the  outskirts  of  fashionable  life,  and  been  con>* 


444 


THE  LAMPLIGHT EK. 


pelled  to  linger,  with  longing  eyes,  at  the  thresliold,  I  might,  even 
now,  be  loitering  there,  a  deceived  spectator  of  joys  which  it  was 
not  permitted  to  me  to  enter  and  share,  or,  having  gained  a  partial 
entrance,  be  eagerly  employed  in  pushing  my  way  onward. 

Admitted,  however,  at  once,  into  the  very  arcana  of  a  sphere 
I  was  eager  to  penetrate,  my  eyes  were  soon  opened  to  the  vain, 
hollow,  and  worthless  nature  of  the  bauble  Fashion.  Not  that  1 
did  not  meet  within  its  courts  the  grace,  wit,  talent,  and  refine- 
ment which  I  had  hoped  to  find  there,  or  that  these  were  invari- 
ably  accompanied  by  other  and  less  attractive  qualities.  No;  1 
truly  believe  there  is  no  class  which  cannot  boast  of  its  heroes  and 
heroines,  and  that  there  are  within  the  walks  of  fashionable  life 
men  and  women  who  would  grace  a  wilderness.  Nor  do  I  despisQ 
forms  and  ceremonies  which  are  becoming  in  themselves,  and  con- 
ducive to  elegance  and  good-breeding.  As  long  as  one  class  is 
distinguished  by  education  and  refined  manners,  and  another  is 
marked  by  ignorance  and  vulgarity,  there  should,  and  there  must, 
in  the  nature  of  things,  be  a  dividing  line  between  the  two,  which 
neither,  perhaps,  would  desire  to  overstep. 

"  But  this  barrier  is  not  Fashion,  which,  both  abroad  and  at 
home,  oftentimes  excludes  the  former,  and  gives  free  admittance  to 
the  latter ;  and  if  I  presume  to  adopt  a  higher  standard,  it  is  be^ 
cause  I  have  bad  so  close  an  acquaintance  with  that  already  set 
tip,  that  I  can  judge  how  little  it  is  to  be  trusted." 

You  are  young,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  "  to  be  such  a  philosopher. 
Many  a  man  has  turned  away  with  disgust  from  an  aristocracy  into 
which  he  could  himself  gain  no  admittance ;  but  few  renounce  ifc 
voluntarily." 

*a^ew,  perhaps,"  replied  Willie,  **few  ymng  men,  at  least, 
have  such  opportunities  as  I  have  had  to  penetrate  its  secrets.  I 
trust  I  may  say  without  treachery,  since  I  speak  in  general  terms 
only,  that  I  have  seen  more  ignorance,  more  ill-breeding,  more 
meamiess,  and  more  immorality,  in  (he  so-called  aristocracy  of  oui 
country,  than  I  should  have  believed  it  possible  would  be  tolerated 
there.  I  have  frequently  known  instances  in  which  the  most 
accomplished  gentleman,  or  the  most  beautiful  lady,  of  a  gay 
circle,  has  given  evidence  of  unpardonable  want  -of  information  oa 


THE  LAMPLIGFTER. 


44S 


fche  most  corumon  topics.  I  have  seen  elegant  evening  assemblies 
disgraced  by  a  degree  of  rudeness  and  incivility  which  reflected  as 
little  credit  on  the  taste  as  on  the  feelings.  I  have  seen  the  pro- 
fuse and  lavish  expenditure  of  to-day  atoned  for  by  a  selfish  and 
despicable  parsimony  on  the  morrow ;  and  I  have  seen  a  want  of 
principle  exhibited  by  persons  of  both  sexes,  which  proves  that  a 
high  wosition  on  earth  is  no  security  against  such  contamination  of 
the  soul  as  must  wholly  unfit  it  for  an  exalted  place  hereafter." 

I  have  witnessed  no  less  myself,"  said  Mr.  Amory ;  "  but  my 
experiences  have  not  been  like  tho^e  of  other  men,  and  my  sight 
has  been  sharpened  by  circumstances.  I  am  still  astonished  that 
you  should  have  been  awake  to  these  facts." 

"  I  was  not,  at  first,"  answered  Willie.  It  was  only  gradually 
that  I  recovered  from  the  dazzling,  blinding  effect  which  the  glitter 
and  show  of  Fashion  imposed  upoii  thn  clearness  of  my  perceptions. 
My  suspicions  of  its  falsehood  and  vanity  were  based  upon  instan- 
ces of  selfishness,  folly,  and  cold-heartedness,  which,  one  after 
another,  came  to  my  knowledge.  I  could  relate  to  you  the  thou- 
sand mean  deceits,  the  contemptible  rivalries,  the  gross  neglect  of 
sacred  duties,  which  came  under  my  immediate  observation ;  but  I 
will  not  betray  the  secrets  of  indivirUials,  or  weary  you  with  their 
recital. 

Especially  was  I  astonished  at  %e  effect  of  an  uninterrupted 
pursuit  of  pleasure  upon  the  sensibUities,  the  tempers,  and  the 
domestic  affections  of  women.  Thongh  bearing  within  my  heart 
an  image  of  female  goodness  and  pur^tv  this  sweet  remembrance, 
vhis  living  ideal,  might  possibly  have  b<?tii3  driven  from  its  throne, 
and  supplanted  by  some  one  of  the  bvely  faces  wh^ch  at  first 
bewildered  me  by  their  beauty^  had  the>s£i  last  been  the  index  to 
souls  of  equal  perfection.  There  may  be  —  I  have  no  doubt  that 
there  are  —  noble  and  excellent  womea  moving  in  the  highest 
walks  of  life,  whose  beauty,  grace,  and  other  t^utward  adornments 
are  less  admirable  than  their  own  high  natures  •  but  among  those 
with  whom  1  became  familiarly  acquainted  there  was  not  one  who 
could  in  the  least  compare  with  her  who  was  continually  present 
to  my  memory,  who  is  still,  and  ever  must  be,  a  model  to  her  ses. 
*'  It    no  wonder  that  others  failed  to  come  up  to  my  conception 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

Of  -11  that  is  lovely  in  woman,  since  the  character  (f  Gertrudj 
Fli«t  was  the  standard  hy  which  each  in  ray  mind  was  measurea. 
How  could  I  help  contrasting  the  folly,  the  wovldiiness,  antl  the 
colcl^teartedness  around  me  with  the  cultivated  mmd,  the  selt- 
sacrifeing  and  affectionate  disposition,  of  one  who  possesses  every 
quality  that  can  adorn  life,  whether  at  home  or  abroad  i  iou 
have  ?udeed  failed  to  convmce  me  that  Gertrude  can  m  any  way 
be  a  dxuwback  or  disadvantage  to  the  man  who  shall  be  so  tortu- 
nate      to  call  her  his.    For  my  own  part,  I  desire  no  better,  no 
more  irMy  aristocratic  position  in  life,  than  that  to  which  she  is  so 
well  entitled,  and  to  which  she  would.be  one  of  the  brightest  orna- 
ments  -  the  aristocracy  of  true  refinement,  knowledge,  grace,  and 
beauty.    You  talk  to  me  of  wealth.    Gertrude  has  no  money  m 
her  pur.c.  but  her  soul  is  the  pure  gold,  tried  in  the  farnace  of 
sorrow  avsJ  affliction,  and  thence  come  forth  bright  and  unalloyed. 
You  snea^  of  family  and  an  honorable  birth.    She  has  no  family, 
and  h^r  birth  is  shrouded  in  mystery;  but  the  blood  that  courses 
in  her  vmm  would  never  disgrace  the  race  from  which  she  sprung, 
and  every  throb  of  her  unselfish  heart  allies  her  to  all  that  is 

You  are  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  beauty.  When  I  parted 
fr«,n  Gertrude,  she  was,  in  all  but  character,  a  mere  chdd,  bemg 
only  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  ago.  Though  much  altered  and 
improved  since  the  time  when  she  first  came  among  us,  I  scarce  y 
think  she  could  have  been  said  to  possess  much  of  what  the  world 
calls  beauty.  For  myself,  it  was  a  matter  of  which  I  se  dom 
thought  or  cared;  and,  had  I  been  less  indifferent  on  the  subject 
she  was  so  dear  to  me  that  I  should  have  been  utterly  unable  to 
form  an  impartial  judgment  of  her  claims  in  this  respect. 

"  I  well  remember,  however,  the  indignation  I  once  felt  at  hear- 
in-v  a  fellow-clerk,  who  had  accidentally  met  her  in  one  of  our 
wllks  snceringly  contrast  her  personal  appearance  with  that  ot 
our  mutual  employer's  handsome  daughter,  the  san^e  i^I.ss  Clinton 
of  ^vbom  we  have  been  speaking;  and  the  proportionate  rapture 
with  which  I  listened  to  the  excellent  teacher,  Miss  Browne ,  when 
an  a  certain  occasion,  being  present  at  a  school-exiimmation  I 
overheard  her  commenting  to  a  lady  upon  Gertrudes  wonderful 


THS  lAMPLIGIIlER. 


447 


promise  in  person  as  well  as  in  mincL  Whether  the  first  pa^'t  of 
this  promise  has  been  fulfilled,  I  have  no  means  of  judoing  ;  but, 
as  I  recall  her  dignified  and  graceful  little  figure,  her  largo,  intel- 
ligent, sparkling  eyes,  the  glo\^  of  feeling  that  lit  up  her  whole 
countenance,  and  the  peaceful,  almost  majestic  expression  which 
purity  of  soul  imparted  to  her  yet  childish  features,  she  stan^la 
forth  to  my  remembrance  the  embodiment  of  all  that  I  hold  most 
dear. 

Six  years  may  have  outwardly  changed  her  much  ;  but  they 
cannot  have  robbed  her  of  what  I  prize  the  most.  She  has  charms 
over  which  time  can  have  no  power,  a  grace  that  is  a  gift  of  Heaven, 
a  beauty  that  is  eternal.    Could  I  ask  for  more  ? 

Do  not  believe,  then,"  continued  he,  after  a  short  pause,  '*  that 
my  fidelity  to  my  early  playmate  is  an  emotion  of  gratitude  merely; 
It  is  true  I  owe  her  much,  —  far  more  than  I  can  ever  repay  j 
but  the  honest  warrath  of  my  aiFection  for  the  noble  girl  springs 
from  the  truest  love  of  a  purity  of  character  and  singleness  of 
heart  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled. 

"  Vvhat  is  there  in  the  wearisome  and  foolish  walks  of  Fashion, 
the  glitter  and  show  of  wealth,  the  homage  of  an  v^e  crowd,  that 
could  so  fill  my  heart,  elevate  my  spirit,  and  inspire  my  exertions, 
as  the  thought  of  a  peaceful,  happy  home,  blessed  by  a  presiding 
spirit  so  formed  for  confidence,  love,  and  a  communion  that  time 
can  never  dissolve,  and  eternity  will  but  render  more  secure  and 
Mn broken  ? 

And  she  whom  you  love  so  well?  — are  you  sure  —  "  asked 
Mr.  Phillips,  speaking  with  visible  effort,  and  faltering  ere  he  had 
completed  his  sentence. 
^  "No,"  answered  Willie,  anticipating  the  question.       I  know 

what  you  would  ask.  I  am  not  sure.  I  have  no  reason  to 
indulge  the  hopes  I  have  been  dwelling  upon  so  fondly  ;  but  I  do 
not  regret  having  spoken  with  such  openness  and  candor;  for, 
should  she  grieve  my  heart  by  her  coldness,  I  should  still  be  proud 
to  have  loved  her.  Until  this  time,  ever  since  I  gained  my  native 
land,  T  have  been  shackled  by  duties,  which,  sacred  as  they  were, 
have  chafed  a  spirit  longing  for  freedom  to  follow  its  own  im- 
pulses.   In  this  visit  to  you,  sir,"  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  rose  to  do 


448 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


part,  I  have  fulfilled  tlie  last  obligation  iniposed  upon  me  by  mj 
excellent  friend,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be  at  liberty  to  go  wliero 
duty  alone  prevented  me  from  at  once  hastening.'' 

He  offered  his  hand  to  Mr.  Amory,  who  grasped  it  with  a  cor- 
diality A-ery  different  from  the  feeble  greeting  he  had  given  him  on 
his  entrance.  ''Good-by,''  said  he.  ''You  carry  with  you  mv 
best  wishes  for  a  success  which  you  seem  to  have  so  much  at 
heart ;  but  some  day  or  other  I  feel  sure  you  will  be  reminded  of 
all  I  have  said  to  you  this  evening," 

''  Strange  man !  "  thought  Willie,  as  be  walked  towards  his  own 
hotel.  "How  warmly  he  /shook  my  hand  at  parting!,  and  witb 
what  a  friendly  manner  he  bade  me  farewell,  notwithstanding  the 
coldness  of  the  reception  he  gave  me,  and  the  pertinacity  with 
which,  throughout  my  whoi<?  iHt,  I  rejri  his  opinions  and  re- 
pelled his  advice  I 


CHAPTER  XLY. 


Yet 't  Is  a  weary  task  to  school  the  heart, 
Ere  years  of  griefs  have  tamed  its  fiery  spirit 
Into  that  still  and  passive  fortitude 
"Which  is  but  learned  from  sufifering. 

Hemans. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Prime,  opening  the  parlor-door, 
[>atting  her  head  cautiously  in,  looking  round,  and  then  advancing 
with  a  stealthy  pace,  like  that  of  a  favorite  family  cat  which  is 
venturing  to  step  a  little  beyond  its  usual  limits, —  "my!  how 
busy  you  are  !  Lor's  sakes  alive,  if  you  an't  rippin'  up  them  great 
curtains  of  Miss  Graham's  for  the  wash  !  I  wouldn't  be  botberin' 
with  'em,  Miss  Gertrude  :  she  won't  be  here  for  this  fortnifrht,  and 
Miss  Elhy  will  have  time  enough." 

"  0,  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  Mrs.  Prime;  it's  no  trouble." 
Then,  looking  up  pleasantly  at  the  old  cook,  she  added,  It 
seems  very  cosey  for  us  all  to  be  at  home  again  ;  does  n't  it?  " 
It  seems  beautiful!"  answered  Mrs.  Prime,  with  emphasis; 

and  —  I  hope  there's  no  harm  in  sayin'  it  —  I  can't  help  thinkin' 
how  nice  it  would  be^  if  we  could  all  live  on  jist  as  we  are  now, 
without  no  more  intrusions." 

Gertrude  smiled,  and  said,  "  Everything  looks  as  it  used  to  in 
old  times,  when  I  first  came  here.  I  was  quite  a  child  then," 
continued  she,  with  a  sigh. 

Gracious  me  I  What  are  you  now  ?  ''  said  Mrs.  Prime.  **  For 
mercy's  sake.  Miss  Gertrud(3,  don't  you  begin  to  think  about 
growin'  old  !  There's  nothing  like  feeling  young,  to  keep  young. 
There's  Miss  Patty  Pace,  now  —  " 

"  I  have  been  meaning  to  ask  after  her,"  exclaimed  Gertrude, 
resuming  her  scissors,  and  commencing  to  rip  another  window 
curtain.    "Is  she  alive  and  well  yet?" 


450 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


She  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Pilme;  lor,  she  won't  never  die !  Old 
wompn  like  her,  that  feels  themselves  young  gals,  allers  live  for- 
ever ;  but  I  came  a  purpose  to  speak  to  you  about  her.  The 
baker's  boy  that  fetched  the  loaves,  this  mornin',  brought  an 
arrant  from  her,  and  she  wants  to  see  you  the  first  chance  she  can 
get ;  but  I  would  n't  hurry,  either,  about  goin'  there,  or  any- 
where. Miss  Gertrude,  till  I  got  rested ;  for  I  believe  you  an't 
well,  you  look  so  spent  and  kind  o'  tired  out." 

-Did  she  wish  to  see  me?"  asked  Gertrude.  ^' Poor  old 
thing  !  I'll  go  and  see  her,  this  very  afternoon ;  and  you  need  n't 
feellnxious  about  me,  Mrs.  Prime,  —  I  am  quite  well." 

And  Gertrude  went.  It  was  now  her  second  day  of  suspense ; 
and  this,  like  every  other  motive  for  action,  was  eagerly  hailed. 

She  found  Miss  Patty  nearly  bent  double  with  rheumatism, 
dressed  with  less  than  her  usual  care,  and  crouching  over  a  mis- 
erable fire,  built  of  a  few  chips  and  shavings.  She  appeared,  how- 
ever, to  be  in  tolerable  spirits,  and  hailed  Gertrude's  entrance  by 
a  cordial  greeting. 

The  curiosity  for  which  she  was  always  remarkable  seemed  to 
have  increased,  rather  than  diminished,  with  the  infirmities  of  age. 
Innumerable  were  the  questions  she  put  to  Gertrude  regarding  her 
own  personal  experiences  during  the  past  year,  and  the  move- 
ments  of  the  circles  in  which  she  had  been  living.  She  showed  a 
special  interest  in  Saratoga  life,  the  latest  fashions  exhibited  there, 
and  the  opportunities  which  the  place  afforded  for  forming  advan- 
tao-eous  matrimonial  connections. 

""-So  you  have  not  yet  chosen  a  companion,"  said  she,  after 
Gertrude  had  patiently  and  good-naturedly  responded  to  all  her 
mieries.  That  is  a  circumstance  to  be  regretted.  Not,"  con- 
tinued she,  with  a  little  smirk,  and  a  slight  wave  of  the  hand, 
-that  it  is  ever  too  late  in  life  for  one  to  meditate  the  conjugal 
tie  which  is  often  assumed  with  advantage  by  persons  of  fifty  or 
more ;  and  certainly  you,  who  are  still  in  the  bloom  of  your  days, 
need  not  despair  of  a  youthful  swain.  However,  existence,  I  may 
pay  is  two-fold  when  it  is  shared  with  a  congenial  partner;  and 
I  had  hoped  that  before  now.  Miss  Gertrude,  both  you  and  myself 
would  have  formed  such  an  alliance.    Experience  prompts  me. 


THE  LAMPLiaHTER. 


45i 


wlien  1  declare  the  protection  of  the  matrimonial  union  one  of  its 
greatest  advantages. ' ' 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  suffered  from  the  want  of  it,"  said  Ger- 
trude. 

I  have,  Miss  Gertrude,  suffered  incalculably.  Let  me  impress 
upon  you,  however,  that  the  keenest  pangs  have  been  those,  of  the 
gensibilities ;  yes,  the  sensibilities,  —  the  finest  part  of  our  nature, 
and  that  which  will  least  bear  wounding." 

am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  have  been  thus  grieved,"  said 
Gertrude.  I  should  have  supposed  that,  living  quite  alone,  you 
might  have  been  spared  this  trial." 

0,  Miss  Gertrude  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  lifting  up  both 
hands,  and  speaking  in  such  a  pitiable  tone  as  would  have  excited 
&e  compassion  of  her  listener,  if  it  had  been  one  grain  less  ridicu- 
lous,—  "  0,  that  I  had  wings  of  a  dove,  wherewith  to  flee  away 
from  my  kindred  !  I  fondly  thought  to  have  distanced  them,  but 
within  the  last  revolving  year  they  have  discovered  my  retreat,  and 
I  can  no  longer  elude  their  vigilance.  Hardly  can  I  recover  from 
the  shock  of  one  visitation,  —  made,  as  I  am  convinced,  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  taking  an  inventory  of  my  possessions,  and  meas- 
uring the  length  of  my  days,  — before  the  vultures  are  again  seen 
hovering  round  my  dwelling.  But."  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  rais- 
ing her  voice  and  inwardly  chuckling  as  she  spoke,  they  shall  fall 
into  their  own  snare  ;  for  I  will  dupe  every  one  of  them,  yet !  " 

I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  any  relations,"  said  Gertrude  ; 
**  and  it  seems  they  are  such  only  in  name." 

*'Name!"  said  Miss  Pace,  emphatically.  am  animated 

with  gladness  at  the  thought  that  they  are  not  honored  with  a 
cognomen  which  not  one  of  them  is  worthy  to  bear.  No,  they  pasa 
by  a  different  name  ;  a  name  as  plebeian  as  their  own  coarse  souls. 
There  are  three  of  them,  who  stand  to  each  other  in  a  fraternal 
relation,  and  all  are  alike  hateful  to  me.  One,  a  contemptible 
coxcomb,  comes  heie  to  overawe  me  with  his  presence,  which  he 
con^^eives  to  be  imposing;  calls  me  aunt  —  aunt;  thus  testifying 
by  his  speech  to  a  consanguinity  which  he  blindly  fancies  makes 
bdm  nearer  aki»  to  my  property  !  "    The  eld  lady,  excited  to  wrath, 


452  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

almost  slirleked  tlie  last  word.  "  And  the  other  two/'  continued 
she,  with  equal  heat,  "are  beggars!  always  were,  —  always  will 
be,  —  let  'em  be,  —  I'm  glad  of  it !  t     ,     •  , 

"  You  hear  me,  Miss  Gertrude  ;  you  are  a  young  lady  of  quick 
comprehension,  and  I  avail  myself  of  your  contiguity;  wnich. 
although  you  deny  the  charge,  may  shortly  be  interrupted  by 
some  e°ager  lover,  to  request  at  your  hands  a  favor,  such  as  I  litl.e 
thought  once  I  should  ever  feel  compelled  to  seek.  I  want  you  — 
.  I  sent  for  you  to  write,"  Miss  Patty  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper, 
"  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Miss  Patty  Pace." 

The  poor  woman's  trembling  voice  evidenced  a  deep  compas- 
Bion  for  herself,  which  Gertrude  could  not  help  sharing;  and  she 
expressed  a  willingness  to  comply  with  her  wishes  as  far  as  was 
in  her  power,  at  the  same  time  declaring  her  utter  ignorance  ot 
all  the  forms  of  law. 

To  Gertrude's  astonishment.  Miss  Patty  announced  her  own 
perfect  acquaintance  with  all  the  legal  knowledge  which  the  case 
demanded;  and  in  so  complete  and  faultless  a  manner  did  she 
dictate  the  words  of  the  important  instrument,  that,  bemg  after- 
wards properly  witnessed,  signed,  and  sealed,  it  was  found  at  the 
end  of  a  few  months,  — at  which  time  Miss  Patty  was  called  upon 
to  give  up  her  earthly  trast,  —  free  from' imperfection  and  flaw,  and 
proved  a  satisfactory  direction  for  the  disposal  of  the  inheritance. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  here,  however,  that  he  who  was  pro- 
nounced sole  heir  to  her  really  valuable  property  never  availed 
himself  of  the  bequest,  otherwise  than  to  make  a  careful  bestowal 
of  it  among  the  most  needy  and  wortliy  of  her  relatives.  Not- 
withstanding the  protestations  of  several  respectable  individuals 
who  were  present  at  the  attestation  of  the  document,  all  of  whom 
pronounced  Miss  Patty  sane  and  collected  to  her  last  moments, 
he  never  would  believe  that  a  sound  mind  could  have  made  so 
wild  and  erratic  a  disposal  of  the  hardly-earned  and  carefully-pre- 
served savings  of  years. 

This  sole  inheritor  of  her  estates  was  William  Sullivan,  tUe 
knight  of  thfi  rosy  countenance ;  and  the  same  chivalrous  spirit 
which  won  Miss  Patty's  virgin  heart,  and  gained  for  him  her 
lasting  favor,  prompted  him  to  disclaim  and  utterlv  refuse  tho 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


453 


acceptance  of  a  reward  so  wlioUj  disproportloned  to  tlio  slight 
service  be  had  rendered  the  old  lady. 

Though  he  could  not  fail  to  be  amused,  he  was,  nevertheless, 
deeply  touched,  by  the  preaoible  to  the  will,  in  which  Miss  Patty 
set  forth  in  a  most  characteristic  manner  the  feelings  and  motives 
which  had  influenced  her  in  the  choice  of  an  heir  to  her  posses- 
sik  ns. 

A  gentlewoman,  of  advanced  years,  who  has  clung  to  life  and 
its  hopes,  and,  in  spite  of  many  vexatious  vicissitudes,  feels  some- 
thing loath  to  depart,  has  been  forcibly  reminded  by  her  relations 
that  er*  Another  smiling  spring-time  she  may  have  a  call  to  join 
the  deceased  line  of  Paces,  —  a  family  which  will,  on  her 
departure,  here  become  extinct.  With  the  most  polite  of  cour- 
tesies, and  a  passing  wave  of  the  hand.  Miss  Patty  acknowledges 
the  forethought  of  her  relations  of  the  other  branch,  in  reminding 
her,  before  it  be  too  late,  of  the  propriety  of  naming  the  individual 
for  whose  benefit  it  is  her  desire  to  make  a  testamentary  pro- 
vision. 

She  has  looked  about  the  world,  viewed  all  her  fellows  in  the 
glass  of  memory,  and  made  her  final  election.  The  youth  him- 
self—  the  most  gallant  young  gentleman  of  his  day  — will  open 
his  eves  in  astonishment,  and  declare,  ^  Madam,  I  know  you 
not !  '  But,  sir.  Miss  Patty,  old,  ugly,  and  infirm,  has  a  heart 
which  feels  as  keenly  a^  it  did  in  youth.  She  has  not  forgotten 
—  she  means  now  to  signify,  by  her  last  deeds,  how  vividly  she 
remembers  —  the  rosy-cheeked  youth  who  once  raised  her  from 
the  frosty  earth,  took  her  withered  hand,  placed  it  within  his 
vigorous  young  arm,  and,  with  sunny  smiles  and  cheering  words, 
escorted  the  rheumatic  old  woman  to  a  refuge  from  the  wintry 
elements.  Miss  Patty  has  a  natural  love  of  courtesy,  and  the 
deference  offered  by  gay  and  beautiful  youth  to  helpless  and 
despised  old  age  has  touched  a  sensitive  chord.  Miss  Patty  — 
it  is  no  secret  —  has  some  little  hoarded  treasures;  and,  since  she 
cannot  be  on  the  spot  to  superintend  their  expenditure,  she  has, 
after  some  struggles,  resolved  to  secure  them  from  pollution  by 
awarding  these  savings  of  years  to  one  possessed  of  such  true  gen- 
tility as  Master  William  Sullivan,  confidently  assured  that  he  will 


454 


THE  LAMPLIGnTER. 


never  disgrace  the  former  owner  of  the  property,  or  permit  hei 
weali-li  to  flow  into  vulgar  channels." 

Then  followed  an  inventory  of  the  estate,  —  a  most  remarkable 
estate,  consisting  of  odds  and  ends  of  everything ;  and  finally  a 
carefally  and  legally  worded  document,  assigning  the  whole  of  the 
strange  medley,  without  legacies  or  incumbrances,  to  the  sole  use 
and  disposal  of  the  appointed  heir. 

Cier trade  found  it  no  easy  task  to  gather  and  transfix  in  writing 
the  exact  idea  which  the  old  woman's  rambling  dictation  was  in- 
tended to  convey  ;  and  it  was  two  or  three  hours  before  the  man- 
uscript was  completed,  and  the  patient  and  dilligent  scribe  per- 
mitted to  depart. 

The  sky  was  overcast,  and  a  drizzling  rain  beginning  to  fall,  as 
she  commenced  walking  towards  home  ;  but  the  distance  was  not 
great,  ana  the  only  damage  she  sustained  was  a  slight  dampness 
to  her  garments.  Emily  perceived  it  at  once,  however.  Your 
dress  is  quite  wet,"  said  she.  You  must  go  and  sit  by  the  par- 
lor-fire. I  shall  not  go  down  until  tea-time,  but  father  is  there,  and 
will  be  glad  of  your  company ;  he  has  been  alone  all  the  after- 
noon." 

Gertrude  found  Mr.  Graham  sitting  in  front  of  a  pleasant  wood- 
fire,  half  dozing,  half  reading.  She  took  a  book  and  a  low  chair, 
and  joined  him.  Finding  the  heat  too  great,  however,  she  soon 
retreated  to  a  sofa,  at  the  opposite  side  cf -the  room. 

Hardly  had  she  done  so  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front-door 
bell.  The  housemaid,  who  was  passing  by  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  immediately  ushered  in  a  visitor. 

It  was  Willie  I 

Gertrude  rose,  but  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  so  that  she 
dared  not  trust  herself  to  take  a  step  forward.  Willie  advanced 
into  the  centre  of  the  room,  then  looked  at  Gertrude,  bowed,  hesi- 
tated, and  said,    Miss  Flint !  —  is  she  here?  " 

The  color  rushed  into  Gertrude's  face.  She  attempted  to  speak, 
but  failed. 

It  was  not  necessary.    The  blush  was  enough.    Willie  recog- 
nized her,  and,  starting  forward,  eagerly  seized  her  hand. 
*'uerty  !  is  it  possible?" 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


455 


The  perfect  naturalness  and  ease  of  his  maniiGr,  the  T??arrath 
and  earnestness  with  which  he  took  and  retained  her  hand, 
reassured  the  agitated  girl.  The  spoil  seemed  partially  removed. 
For  a  moment  he  became  in  her  eyes  the  Willie  of  her  dear 
friend  and  playmate,  and  she  found  Toice  to  exclaim,  0, 
Willie  I  you  have  come  at  last  !    I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  ! 

The  sound  of  their  voices  disturbed  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  falle!i 
into  a  nap,  from  which  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell  and  tha 
entrance  of  a  strange  step  had  failed  to  arouse  him.  He  turned 
round  in  his  easy-chair,  then  rose.  Willie  dropped  Gertrude's 
hand,  and  stepped  towards  him.  Mr.  Sullivan,"  said  Gertrude, 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  suitable  irstrodaction. 

They  shook  hands,  and  then  all  three  sat  down. 

And  now  all  Gertrude's  embarrassment  returned.  It  is  not 
iinXrequently  the  case  that  when  the  best  of  friends  meet  after  a 
long  separation  they  salute  or  embrace  each  other,  and  then,  not- 
withstanding the  weight  of  matter  pressing  on  the  mind  of  e^^ch,  — 
sufficient,  perhaps^  to  furnish  subjects  of  conversation  for  weeks  tc 
come,  —  nothing  of  importance  presents  itself  at  once,  and  a  pause 
ensues  which  is  finally  filled  up  by  some  most  trivial  and  unim- 
portant  question  concerning  the  journey  of  the  newly-arrived 
party,  or  the  safety  of  his  baggage.  But  to  these  latter  questions, 
or  any  of  a  similar  nature,  Gertrude  required  no  answer.  Sht 
had  seen  Willie  before  ;  she  was  aware  of  his  arrival ;  knew  even 
the  steamer  in  which  he  had  come,  but  was  anxious  to  conceal 
from  him  this  knowledge.  She  could  not  tell  him,  since  he  seemed 
so  ignorant  of  the  fact  himself,  that  they  had  met  before  ;  and  it 
may  well  be  imagined  that  she  was  at  an  utter  loss  what  to  do  or 
say,  under  the  circumstances.  Her  embarrassment  soon  commu- 
nicated itself  to  Willie ;  and  Mr.  Graham's  presence^  wliich  was 
a  restraint  to  both^  made  matters  worse. 

Willie,  however,  first  broke  the  momentary  silence.  "  T  should 
hardly  have  known  you,  Gertrude.  I  did  not  know  you. 
How  —  " 

*■  How  did  you  come?"  asked  Mr.  Graham,  abruptly,  appar* 
ently  uncojiscious  that  he  was  interrupting  Willie's  remark 


^56  THE  LAMPLIGIITEK. 

"  In  the  Europa,"  replied  Willie.  "  Slio  got  into  New  York 
about  a  week  ago." 

"  Out  here,  I  meant,"  said  Mr.  Graliam,  rather  stiffly.  Uid 
you  come  out  in  the  coach  ?  " 

"  0,  excuse  me,  sir,"  rejoined  Willie ;  "  I  misuaderstood  you. 
No,  I  drove  out  from  Boston  in  a  chaise." 

"Did  any  one  take  your  horse "?  " 

"  I  fastened  him  in  front  of  the  house." 

Willie  glanced  out  of  the  window  (it  was  now  nearly  dusk)  to 
see  that  the  animal  was  still  where  he  had  left  him.  Mr.  Graham 
settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair,  and  looked  into  the  fire.  There 
was  another  pause,  more  painful  than  the  first. 

•'You  are  changed,  too,"  said  Gertrude,  at  last,  in  reply  to 
Willie's  unfinished  comment.  Then,  fearing  he  might  feel  hurt  at 
what  he  must  know  to  be  true  in  more  ways  than  one,  the  color, 
which  had  retreated,  mounted  once  more  to  her  cheeks. 

He  did  not  seem  to  feel  hurt,  however,  but  replied,  "  Yes,  an 
Eastern  climate  makes  great  changes  ;  but  1  think  I  can  hardly 
have  altered  more  than  you  have.  Why,  only  think,  Gerty,  you 
were  a  child  when  I  went  away!  I  suppose  I  must  have  known 
I  should  have  found  you  a  young  lady,  but  I  begin  to  think  I 
never  fully  realized  it." 

"  When  did  you  leave  Calcutta  ?  "  ^  _ 

"  The  latter  part  of  February.    I  passed  the  spring  montns  m 

Paris."  . 

"  You  did  not  write,"  said  Gertrude,  in  a  faltermg  voice. 
No,  I  was  expecting  to  come  across  by  every  steamer,  and 

wanted  to  surprise  you."  •  j  „„ 

Conscious  that  she  had  probably  seemed  far  less  surprised  than 
he  expected,  she  looked  confused,  but  replied,  "I  was  d.sap- 
pointed  about  the  letters,  but  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again. 

Willie"  ,     ,       •  • 

"  You  can't  be  so  glad  as  I  am,"  said  he,  lowermg  his  voice 
and  looking  at  her  with  great  tenderness.    "  You  seem  more_  and 
more  like  yourself  to  me  every  minute  that  T  see  you.    I  begin  to 
chink,  however,  that  1  ought  to  have  written,  and  told  you  I  was 
coming." 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


457 


Gertru^lo  smiled.  Willie's  manner  was  so  unchanged,  his 
words  so  affectionate,  that  it  seemed  unkind  to  doubt  his  friend- 
liness, although  to  his  undivided  love  ^he  felt  she  could  have  no 
claim. 

''No,"  said  she,  *'I  like  surprises.  Don't  you  remember  I 
always  did  ?  " 

Remember?  —  Certainly,"  replied  he  ;  **  I  have  never  forgot" 
ten  anything  that  you  liked." 

Just  at  this  moment,  Gertrude's  birds,  whose  cage  hung  in  the 
window  at  which  Willie  sat,  commenced  a  little  twittering  noise, 
which  they  always  made  just  at  night.    He  looked  up.  Your 
birds,"  said  G-ertrude,  —  "  the  birds  you  sent  me." 
**  Are  they  all  alive  and  well?  "  asked  he. 
Yes,  all  of  them." 

You  have  been  a  kind  mistress  to  the  little  things.  They  are 
very  tender." 

I  am  very  fond  of  them." 

*•  You  take  such  care  of  those  you  love,  dear  Gerty,  that  you 
are  sure  to  preserve  their  lives  as  long  as  may  be." 

His  tone,  still  more  than  his  words,  betrayed  the  deep  meaning 
with  which  he  spoke.    Gertrude  was  silent. 
Is  Miss  Graham  well?  "  asked  Willie. 

Gertrude  related,  in  reply,  that  her  nerves  had  been  recently 
much  disturbed  by  the  terrible  experiences  through  which  she  had 
passed ;  and  this  led  to  the  subject  of  the  recent  disaster,  at  which 
Gertrude  forbore  to  mention  her  having  been  herself  present. 

Willie  spoke  with  feeling  of  the  sad  catastrophe,  and  with 
severity  of  the  reckless  carelessness  which  had  been  the  cause  of 
it ;  and  ended  by  remarking  that  he  had  valued  friends  on  board 
the  boat,  but  was  unaware  that  Miss  Graham,  whom  he  loved  for 
Gertrude's  sake,  was  among  them. 

Conversation  between  Gertrude  and  Willie  had  by  this  time 
assumed  a  footing  of  ease,  and  something  of  their  former  famil- 
iarity. The  latter  had  taken  a  seat  near  her,  on  the  sofa, 
that  they  isnight  talk  more  unrestrainedly;  for,  although  Mr. 
Graham  might  have  dropped  asleep  again,  for  anything  they 
knew  to  the  contrary,  it  was  not  easy  wholly  to  forget  his  pre& 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

ence 


ence.    There  wei-e  many  subjects,  however,  on  which  it  would 
have  seemed  natural  for  them  to  speak,  had  not  Gertrurle  pur- 
posely  avoided  them.    The  causes  of  Willie's  sudden  return,  his 
probable  stay,  his  future  plans  in  life,  and  especially  bs  reasons 
for  having  postponed  his  visit  to  herself  until  he  had  been  m  the 
country  more  than  a  week;  — all  these  were  inquiries  which  even 
ordinary  interest  and  curiosity  would  have  suggested;  but  to 
Gertrude  they  all  lay  under  embargo.    She  neither  felt  prepared 
to  receive  nor  willing  to  force  his  confidence  on  matters  w.iicb 
must  inevitably  be  influenced  by  his  engagement  with  Miss  O.m- 
ton,  and  therefore  preserved  utter  silence  on  these  topics,  even 
takin<r  pains  to  avoid  them.    And  Willie,  deeply  grieved  at  th,a 
strange  want  of  sympathy  on  her  part,  forbore  to  thrust  upon  her 
notice  these  seemingly  forgotten  or  neglected  circumstances.  ^ 
They  talked  of  Calcutta  life,  of  Parisian  novelties,  of  Gertrude  s 
school-keeping,  and  many  other  things,  but  spoke  not  a  word  of 
matters  which  lay  nearest  the  hearts  of  both.     At    ength  a 
servant  appeared  at  the  door,  and,  not  observing  that  there  was 
company,  announced  tea.    Mr.  Graham  rose,  and  stood  with  h,3 
back  to  the  fire.    Willie  rose  also,  and  prepared  to  take  leave. 
Mr.  Graham  with  frigid  civility  invited  him  to  remain,  and  Ger- 
trude hesitated  not  to  urge  him  to  do  so;  but  he  declined  with 
such  decision  that  the  latter  understood  plainly  that  he  perceived 
and  felt  the  neglect  with  which  Mr.  Graham  had  treated  h.m  and 
his  visit     In  addition  to  the  fact  that  the  old  gentleman  disliked 
youn..  men  as  a  class,  and  that  Willie  had  intruded  upon  the  rare 
wd  sacred  privacy  in  which  he  was  indulging,  there  was  the  bit- 
ter and  still  rankhng  recollection  that  Gertrude  had  once  forsaken 
himself  and  Emily  (for  so  he,  in  his  own  mind,  styled  her  con- 
scientious choice  between  conflicting  duties)  for  the  very  family 
of  which  their  visitor  was  the  only  remaining  member;  a  recol- 
lection which  did  not  tend  to  soften  or  conciliate  the  easily- 
preiudiced  and  obstinate-minded  man.  _ 

Gertrude  accompanied  Willie  to  the  door.  The  ram  had 
o.>ased,  but  the  wind  whistled  across  the  piazza.  It  seemed  to  be 
growing  cold.  Willie  buttoned  his  coat,  while  he  promised  U 
see  Gertrude  on  the  following  day. 


THE  IiAMPLlGTTTr:R. 


459 


*'  You  liave  no  overcoat,"  said  she  ;  "  the  night  is  chilly,  an(i 
you  are  accustomed  to  a  hot  climate.  You  had  better  take  this 
shawl;"  and  she  took  from  the  hat-tree  a  heavy  Scotch  plaid, 
which  always  hung  there  to  be  used  on  occasions  like  the  present. 

He  thanked  her,  and  threw  it  over  his  arm  ;  then,  taking  bolh 
her  hands  in  his,  looked  her  steadily  in  the  face  for  a  moment, 
as  if  he  would  fain  have  spoken.  Seeing,  however,  that  slie 
shrank  from  his  mild  and  affectionate  gaze,  he  dropped  her  hands, 
and,  with  a  troubled  expression,  bade  her  good-night,  and  ran 
down  the  door-steps. 

Gertrude  stood  with  the  handle  of  the  door  in  her  hand,  until  she 
heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  as  he  drove  down  the  road; 
then,  hastily  shutting  it,  ran  and  hid  herself  in  her  own  room. 
Well  as  she  had  borne  up  daring  the  longed-for  and  yet  much- 
dreaded  meeting,  caliiily  and  naturally  as  she  had  sustained  her 
part,  her  courage  all  forsook  her  now,  and  in  looking  forward  to 
days,  weeks,  and  months  of  frequent  intercourse,  she  felt  that  the 
most  trying  part  of  the  struggle  was  yet  to  come. 

Had  Willie  been  wholly  changed,  —  had  he  seemed  the  thought- 
less worldling,  the  fashionable  man  of  society,  the  cold-hearted 
devotee  of  business  or  of  gain,  —  in  one  of  which  characters  she 
had  lately  half-fancied  he  would  appear, — had  he  greeted  her  with 
chilling  formality,  with  heartless  indifference,  or  with  awkward 
restraint,  she  might,  while  she  despised,  pitied,  or  blamed,  have 
learned  to  love  him  less.  But  he  had  come  back  as  he  went, 
open-hearted,  generous,  manly,  and  affectionate.  He  had  mani 
fested  the  same  unaffected  warmth  of  feeling,  the  same  thoughtful 
tenderness,  he  had  ever  shown.  In  short,  he  was  the  Willie  she 
had  thought  of,  dreamed  of,  imagined  and  loved.  It  was  evident 
that  in  giving  his  heart  to  another  he  had  never  wholly  forgotten 
her ;  while  he  loved  Isabel,  he  would  still  feel  a  friendly,  almost 
a  brotherly  regard  for  Gertrude.  More  than  that  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  bestow. 

And  she  must  school  herself  to  the  cruel  task  of  seeing  him 
day  by  day,  hearing  the  story  of  his  love  for  another,  and  wishing 
him  all  joy,  as  a  sister  might  do  a  kind  and  affoctionate  brother. 
She  must  learn  to  subdue  the  love  whose  depth  and  intensity  she 


^QQ  THE  LAMPLTGHTEU. 

had  scarcely  known  tmtil  now.  and  mould  it  into  friendsliip.  As 
she  t',ou-ht  of  all  lliis,  slie  found  it  impossible  to  stsll  the  wildly- 
beatin-  waves  that  swelled  against  her  aching,  throbbing  heart 
She  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  buried  her  face  in  pillows,  and 

""Trescntlv  there  was  a  light  tap  at  her  door.  Believing  it  to  be 
a  summons  to  the  tea-table,  she  said,  without  rising,  "Jane,  13 
that  you?    I  do  not  wish  for  any  supper." 

"  It  is  n't  that,  miss,"  eaid  the  girl;  "  but  I  have  brought  you 
a  letter.'' 

Gertrude  sprung  up,  nnd  opened  the  door. 

<'  A  little  boy  handed  it  to  me,  and  then  ran  off  as  fast  as  he 
could,"  said  the  girl,  placing  a  package  in  her  hand.  "  He  told 
me  to  give  it  to  you  straight  away." 

"  Brin"'  me  a  light,"  said  Gertrude. 

The  girl  went  for  a  lamp,  Gertrude  in  the  mean  time,  endeav- 
orin..  to  judge  what  a  package  of  such  unusual  size  and  thickness 
could  contain.  She  thought  it  impossible  that  any  letter  could  so 
soon  arrive  from  Mr.  Amory.  The  next  morning  was  the  earliest 
time  at  which  she  had  expected  one.  Who,  then,  could  it  be 
from?  And,  while  she  was  wondering,  Jane  brought  a  lamp,  by 
the  li-ht  of  which  she  at  once  detected  his  hand-writing;  and, 
breaking  the  seal,  she  drew  from  the  envelope  several  closely  writ, 
ten  pa-er,  whose  contents  she  perused  with  all  the  eagerness  and 
exc-teraent  which  the  weight,  import,  and  intense  interest  of  tha 
«?ul^jr;ct  Tiight  well  demand. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


There  are  swift  hours  in  life,  —  strong,  rusMng  hours, 
That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their  might ! 

Hemans. 

It  ran  as  follows : 
My  Daughter,  —  My  loving,  tender-hearted  girl.  Now  that 
your  own  words  encourage  me  with  the  assurance  that  my  worst 
fear  was  unfounded  (the  fear  that  my  name  was  already  blasted 
to  your  young  ears,  and  your  father  doomed  by  your  young  heart 
to  infamy),  — now  that  I  can  appeal  to  you  as  to  an  impartial  wit- 
ness, I  will  disclose  the  story  of  ray  life,  and,  while  I  prove  to 
you  your  parentage,  will  hope  that  my  unprejudiced  child,  at  least, 
will  believe,  love,  and  trust  her  father,  in  spite  of  a  world's  in- 
justice. 

"  I  will  conceal  nothing.  I  will  plunge  at  once  into  those  dis- 
closures which  I  most  dread  to  utter,  and  trust  to  after  explana- 
tion to  palliate  the  darkness  of  my  tale. 

*'  Mr.  Graham  is  my  step-father,  and  my  blessed  mother,  long 
since  dead,  was,  in  all  but  the  tie  of  nature,  a  true  mother  to 
Emily.  Thus  allied,  however,  to  those  whom  you  love  best,  I  am 
parted  from  them  by  a  heavy  curse ;  for  not  only  was  mino  the 
ill-fated  hand  (0,  hate  me  not  yet,  Gertrude  !)  which  locked  poor 
Emily  up  in  darkness,  but,  in  addition  to  that  horrid  deed,  I 
etand  accused  in  the  eyes  of  my  fellow-men  of  another  crime, 
deep,  dark,  and  disgraceful.  And  yet,  though  living  under  a  ban, 
wandering  up  and  down  the  world  a  doomed  and  a  broken-hearted 
man,  I  am  innocent  as  a  child  of  all  intentional  wron^",  as  you 
will  learn  if  you  can  trust  to  the  truth  of  the  tale  I  am  about  to 
telL 

39* 


462 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEE. 


"  Nature  gave  and  educnticn  fostered  in  me  a  rebellious  spirit 
I  was  tho  idol  of  my  invalid  mother,  who,  though  she  loved  me 
m±  a  love  for  which  T  bless  ber  memory,  had  not  the  energy  to 
tame  and  subdue  the  passionate  and  wilful  nature  of  her  boy. 
Though  ungoverned,  however,  I  was  neither  cruelly  nor  viciously 
dispoJed,  and  though  my  sway  at  home  and  among  my  school-fel- 
lows was  alike  indisputable,  I  made  many  friends,  and  not  a  smgle 
enemy.  But  a  sudden  check  was  at  length  put  to  my  freedom. 
My  mother  married,  and  I  soon  came  to  feel,  and  feel  bitterly, 
the  check  which  her  husband,  Mr.  Graham,  was  liksly  to  impose 
upon  my  boyish  independence.  Had  he  treated  me  with  kindness, 
had  he  won  my  affection  (which  he  might  easily  have  done,  for 
my  sensitive  and  impassioned  nature  disposed  me  to  every  tender 
and  grateful  emotion),  it  is  impossible  to  measure  the  influence  he 
might  have  had  in  moulding  my  yet  unformed  character. 

°  But  the  reverse  was  the  case.  His  behavior  towards  me  was 
that  of  chilling  coldness  and  reserve.  Ho  repelled  with  scorn  the 
first  advance  on  my  part,  which  led  mo,  at  my  mother's  instigation, 
to  address  him  by  the  paternal  title,— an  offence  of  which  I 
never  again  was  guilty.  And  yet,  while  he  seemed  to  ignore  the 
relationship,  he  assumed  its  privileges  and  authority,  thus  wound- 
ing my  feelings  and  my  pride,  and  exciting  a  spirit  of  rebellious  op- 
position  to  bis  commands. 

"  Two  tilings  served  to  embitter  my  sentiments  and  strcngtben 
my  growing  dislike  for  my  overbearing  step-father.  One  was  the 
consciousness  of  my  utter  dependence  upon  his  bounty;  the  other, 
a  hint,  which  I  received  through  the  mistaken  kindness  of  a  do- 
mestlc'who  had  always  known  the  family,  that  Mr.  Graham's  dis- 
like to  me  had  its  origin  in  an  old  enmity  between  himself  and  my 
own  father— an  honorable  and  high-minded  man,  whom  it  was 
ever  my  greatest  pride  to  be  told  that  I  resembled. 

"  Great,  however,  as  was  the  warfare  in  my  heart,  power  rested 
with  Jlr.  Graham  ;  for  I  was  yet  but  a  child,  and  necessarily  sub- 
ject to  gove-nuicnt.  Nor  could  I  be  deaf  to  my  mother's  en- 
treaties tliat,  for  ber  sake,  I  would  learn  submission.  It  was  only 
occasionally,  therefore,  when  I  had  been,  as  I  considered,  most 
unjustly  thwarted,  that  I  broke  forth  into  direct  rebellion;  and 


TIIE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


4()3 


evea  then  there  were  influences  ever  at  work  to  preserve  at  least 
outward  harmony  in  our  household.  Thus  years  passed  on,  and, 
though  1  did  not  learn  to  love  Mr,  Graham  more,  the  force  of 
habit,  the  intense  interest  afforded  by  my  studies,  and  a  growing 
capability  of  self-control,  rendered  my  mode  of  life  far  less  obnox- 
ious to  me  than  it  had  once  been. 

There  was  one  great  compensation  for  my  trials,  and  that  was 
the  love  I  cherished  for  Emily,  who  responded  to  it  with  equal 
warmth  on  her  part.  It  was  not  because  she  stood  between  me 
and  her  father,  a  mediator  and  a  friend ;  it  was  not  because  she 
submitted  patiently  to  my  dictation,  and  aided  me  in  all  my  plans. 
It  was  because  our  natures  were  made  for  each  other,  and,  as 
they  grew  and  expanded,  were  bound  together  by  ties  which  a 
rude  hand  only  could  snap  and  rend  asunder.  I  pause  not  to 
dwell  upon  the  tenderness  and  depth  of  this  affection ;  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  it  became  the  life  of  m.y  life. 

**At  length  my  mother  died.  I  was  at  that  time  — sorely 
against  my  will  —  employed  in  Mr.  Graham's  counting-house,  and 
still  continued  an  inmate  of  his  family.  And  now,  without  excuse 
or  even  warning,  my  step-father  commenced  a  course  of  policy  as 
unwise  as  it  was  cruel ;  and  so  irritating  to  my  pride,  so  tortur- 
ing to  my  feelings,  and  so  maddening  to  my  hot  nature,  that  it  ex- 
cited and  angered  me  almost  to  frenzy.  He  tried  to  rob  me  of 
the  only  thing  that  sweetened  and  blessed  my  existence  —  the  love 
of  Emily.  I  will  not  here  recount  the  motives  I  imputed  to  him, 
nor  the  means  he  employed.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  they 
were  such  as  to  change  my  former  dislike  into  bitter  hatred,  — 
my  unwilling  obedience  to  his  will  into  open  and  deliberate  op- 
position. 

**  Instead  of  submitting  to  what  I  considered  his  tyrannical  inter- 
ference, I  sought  Emily's  society  on  all  occasions,  and  persuaded 
the  gentle  girl  to  lend  herself  to  my  schemes  for  thwarting  her 
father's  purposes.  I  did  not  speak  to  her  of  love  ;  I  did  not 
seek  to  bind  her  to  me  by  promises ;  I  hinted  not  at  marriage; 
a  sense  of  honor  forbade  it.  But,  with  a  boyish  independence, 
which  I  have  since  feared  was  the  height  of  folly  and  imprudence, 
I  sought  every  occasion,  even  in  her  father's  presence,  to  Eiani- 


J.(J4  THE  LAMPLIGIiTKR. 

fest  my  determination  to  maintain  that  constant  freedom  and  fa* 
miliarity  of  intercourse  which  had  been  the  growth  of  ciroumstauces. 
and  could  not,  without  force,  be  restrained. 

'<  At  len-th  Emily  was  taken  ill,  and  for  six  weeks  I  was  de- 
barred  her  presence.  As  soon  as  she  was  sufiadently  recovered  to 
leave  her  room,  I  constantly  sought  and  at  last  obtained  an  oppor- 
tunity to  see  and  speak  with  her.  We  had  been  together  m  t.ie 
library  more  than  an  hour  when  Mr.  Graham  suddenly  entered, 
and  came  towards  us  with  a  face  whose  harshness  and  seventy  1 
shall  not  soon  forget.  I  did  not  heed  an  interruption,  for  the 
probable  consequences  of  which  I  believed  myself  prepared.  1 
was  little  prepared,  however,  for  the  nature  of  the  attack  actually 

made  upon  me.  , 

"  That  he  would  accuse  me  of  disobedience  to  wishes  whica  he 
had  hinted  in  every  possible  way,  and  even  intimate  more  plainly 
than  before  his  resolve  to  place  barriers  between  Emdy  and  my- 
self, I  fully  expected,  and  was  ready  with  my  replies;  but  when 
he  burst  forth  with  a  torrent  of  unqualified  and  ungcntlcman  y 
abuse,  —  when  he  stormed  and  raved,  imputing  to  me  mean,  sellbii, 
and  contemptible  motives,  which  had  never  for  a  moment  influ- 
enced me,  or  even  occurred  to  my  mind, -I  was  struck  dumb 
•with  surprise,  impatience,  and  anger. 

"  But  this  was  not  all.  It  was  then,  in  the  presence  of  the  pure- 
minded  girl  whom  I  worshipped,  that  he  charged  me  wl;h  a  dark 
and  horrid  crime, -the  crime  of  forgery, -asserting  my  guilt  as 
recently  discovered,  but  positive  and  undoubted.  My  spirit  had 
ra^ed  before,  now  it  was  on  fire.  I  lifted  my  hand,  and  clenched 
my  fist.  What  I  would  Irave  done  I  kno.T  not.  Whether  I 
should  have  found  words  to  assert  my  innocence,  fling  back  the 
ho,  and  refute  a  charge  as  unexpected  as  it  was  false,  —or  whether, 
my  voice  failing  me  from  passion,  I  should  have  swept  Mr  Graham 
fiom  my  path,  perhaps  felled  him  to  the  floor,  while  I  strode  away 
to  rally  my  calmness  in  the  open  air,  — I  cannot  now  conjecture  ; 
for  a  wild  shriek  from  Emily  recalled  me  to  myself,  and,  turning. 
I  saw  her  fall  fainting  upon  the  sofa. 

"  Forgetting  everything  then  hut  the  apparently  dying  condition 
m«o  wbicb.  th^  horror  of  the  scene  had  throvrt  her,  I  spraag  foi> 


THE  LAMPLIGHT 


465 


ward  to  her  relief.  There  was  a  table  beside  her,  and  some  boi- 
tles  upon  it.  I  hastily  snatched  what  I  believed  to  bo  a  simple 
restorative,  and,  in  my  agitation,  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
phial  in  her  face.  I  know  not  what  the  exact  character  of  the 
mixture  could  have  been ;  but  it  matters  not,  —  its  cffoct  was  too 
awfully  evident.  The  deed  was  done,  —  the  fatal  deed, —and 
mine  was  the  hand  that  did  it ! 

"Brought  suddenly  to  consciousness  by  the  intolerable  torture 
that  succeeded,  the  poor  girl  sprung  screaming  from  the  sofa, 
flung  her  arms  wildly  above  her  head,  rushed  in  a  frantic  manner 
through  the  room,  and  finally  crouched  in  a  corner.  I  followed, 
in  an  agony  scarce  less  than  her  own  ;  but  she  repelled  me  with 
her  hands,  at  the  same  time  uttering  piercing  shrieks.  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, who  for  an  instant  had  looked  like  one  paralyzed  by  the 
scene,  now  rushed  forward  like  a  madman.  Instead  of  aiding  me 
in  my  efforts  to  hft  poor  Emily  from  the  floor,  and  so  far  from 
compassionating  my  situation,  which  was  only  less  pitiable  than 
hers,  he,  with  a  fierceness  redoubled  at  my  being,  as  he  consid- 
ered, the  sole  cause  of  the  disaster,  attacked  me  with  a  storm  of 
Jeering  taunts  and  cruel  reproaches,  declaring  that  I  had  killed 
his  child.  With  words  like  these,  which  are  still  ringing  in  my 
ears,  he  drove  me  from  the  room  and  the  house;  a  repulsion 
which  I,  overpowered  by  the  misery  of  contrition  and  remorse, 
had  neither  the  wish  nor  the  strength  to  resist. 

0,  the  terrible  night  and  day  that  succeeded  !  I  can  give 
you  no  idea  how  they  were  passed.  I  wandered  out  into  the 
country,  spent  the  whole  night  walking  beneath  the  open  sky, 
endeavoring  to  collect  my  thouglits  and  compose  my  mind,  and 
still  morning  found  me  with  a  fevered  pulse  and  excited  brain. 
With  the  returning  light,  however,  I  began  to  realize  the  neces- 
sity of  forming  some  future  plan  of  action. 

Emily's  sad  situation,  and  my  intense  anxiety  to  learn  the 
worst  effects  of  the  fatal  accident,  gave  me  the  strongest  motives 
for  hastening,  with  the  earliest  morning,  either  openly  or  by 
stoalth,  to  Mr.  Graham's  house.  Everything  also  which  I  pos- 
sessed —  all  my  money,  consisting  merely  of  the  residue  of  my 
last  quarter's  allowance,  my  clothing,  and  a  few  valuable  gifta 


406 


THE  LA^JPLIGHTER. 


from  my  mother —was  in  the  chamber  \Aich  T  had  there  occu' 
pied.  There  seemed,  therefore,  to  be  no  other  course  for  me 
than  to  return  thither  once  more,  at  least;  and  having  thus  re- 
solved, I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  city,  determined,  if  it  were 
necessary  in  order  to  gain  the  desired  particulars  concerning 
Emily,  to  meet  her  father  face  to  face.  As  I  drew  near  the 
bouse,  however,  I  hesitated,  and  dared  not  proceed.  Mr.  Graham 
had  exhausted  upon  me  already  every  angry  word,  had  threatened 
even  deeds  of  violence,  should  I  ever  again  cross  his  threshold  ; 
and  I  feared  to  trust  my  own  fiery  spirit  to  a  collision  in  which  I 
might  be  led  on  to  an  open  resistance  of  the  man  whom  I  had 
already  sufficiently  injured. 

'^n  the  terrible  work  I  had  but  yesterday  done,  — a  work  of 
whose  fatal  effect  I  had  even  then  a  gloomy  foreshadowing, —  I 
had  bhghted  the  existence  of  his  worshipped  child,  and  drawn  a 
dark  pall  over  his  dearest  hopes.  It  was  enough.  I  would  not, 
for  worlds,  be  guilty  of  the  added  sin  of  lifting  my  hand  against 
the  man  who,  unjust  as  he  had  been  towards  an  innocent  youth, 
had  met  a  retaliation  far,  far  too  severe. 

Still,  I  knew  his  wrath  to  be  unmitigated,  was  well  aware  of 
his  power  to  excite  my  hot  nature  to  frenzy,  and  resolved  to 
beware  how  I  crossed  his  path.  Meet  him  I  must,  to  refute  the 
false  charges  he  had  brought  against  me;  but  not  within  the 
walls  of  his  dwelling,  the  honie  of  his  suffering  daughter.  In 
the  counting-house,  where  the  crime  of  forgery  was  said  to  have 
been  committed,  and  in  the  presence  of  my  fellow-clerks,  I  would 
publicly  deny  the  deed,  and  dare  him  to  its  proof.  But  first  I 
must.ekher  see  or  hear  from  Eaiily ;  before  I  met  the  father  at 
all,  I  must  learn  the  exact  nature  and  extent  of  the  wrong  I  had 
done  him  in  the  person  of  his  child.  For  this,  however,  I  must 
wait  until,  under  cover  of  the  next  night's  darkness,  I  could 
enter  the  house  unperceived. 

*'So  I  wandered  about  all  day  in  torment,  without  tasting  or 
even  desiring  food  or  rest,  the  thought  of  my  poor,  darlino;,  tor- 
cured  Emily  ever  present  to  my  wretched  thoughts.  The  hours 
Sjeemed  interminable.  I  remember  that  day  of  suspense  as  if  it 
had  been  a  whole  year  of  misery.    But  right  came  at  last 


♦  THE  LAMPLTGIITEII. 


467 


€li>udy,  a/i'l  the  air  thickened  with  a  heavy  fog,  which,  as  I 
approached  the  street  where  Mr.  Graham  lived,  enveloped  the 
neighborhood,  and  concealed  the  house  until  I  was  directly  oppo- 
site to  it.  I  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  the  physician's  chaise 
standing  before  the  door;  for  I  knew  that  Dr.  Jeremy  had  closed 
bis  visits  to  Faiiily  more  than  a  week  previously,  and  must  have 
been  summoned  to  attend  her  since  the  accident.  Finding  him 
ihcre,  and  thinking  it  probable  Mr.  Graham  was  also  in  the  house 
at  this  hour^  I  forbore  to  enter,  but  stood  effectually  concealed  bj 
the  cloud  of  mist,  and  watching  my  opportunity. 

Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  housekeeper,  passed  up  and 
down  the  staircase,  as  I  could  distinctly  see  through  the  side- 
lights of  the  door,  which  afforded  me  a  fail  view  of  the  entry- 
way  ;  and  presently  Dr.  Jeremy  descended  slowly,  followed  by 
Mr.  Graham.  The  doctor  would  have  passed  hastily  out;  but 
Mr.  Graham  detained  him,  to  question  him  regarding  his  patient, 
as  I  judged  from  the  deep  anxiety  depicted  on  my  step-father'i 
countenance,  while,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the  shoulder  of  this 
old  friend  of  the  family,  he  sought  to  read  his  opinion  io  his  face. 
The  doctor's  back  was  iv. wards  me,  and  I  could  only  judge  of  his 
replies  by  the  effect  they  produced  on  the  questioner,  whose  hag- 
gard, worn  appearance  became  more  fearfully  distressed  at  every 
syllable  that  fell  from  the  honest  and  truthful  lips  of  the  medical 
man,  whose  words  were  oracles  to  all  who  knew  his  skill. 

I  needed,  therefore,  no  further  testimony  to  force  upon  me  the 
conviction  that  Eaiily's  fate  was  sealed ;  and,  as  I  looked  with 
pity  upon  the  afflicted  parent,  and  shudderingly  thought  how 
immediate  had  been  my  agency  in  the  work  of  destruction,  I  felt 
that  the  unhappy  father  could  not  curse  me  more  bitterly  than  I 
cursed  myself.  Deeply,  however,  as  I  mourned,  and  have  never 
ceased  to  repent,  my  share  in  the  exciting  of  that  storm  wherein 
the  poor  girl  had  been  so  cruelly  shipwrecked,  I  could  not  forget 
the  part  that  Mr.  Graham  had  borne  in  the  transaction,  or  for- 
give the  wicked  injustice  and  insults  which  had  so  unnerved  and 
unmanned  me  as  to  render  my  hand  a  fit  instrument  only  of 
ruin ;  and  as,  immediately  after  the  doctor's  departure,  I  watched 
my  step-father  also  come  down  the  steps  and  walk  away,  and  saw. 


4(58 


Tlli;  LAMl'LIGIiTER. 


by  a  street-lamp,  that  the  look  of  pain  had  passed  from  his  face, 
giving  place  to  his  usual  composed,  self-complacent,  and  arrogant 
expression,  and  understood,  by  the.  loud  and  measured  manner  in 
which  he  struck  his  cane  upon  the  pavement,  that  he  was  far  from 
sharing  my  humble,  penitent  mood,  I  ceased  to  waste  upon  him  o 
compassion  which  he  seemed  so  little  to  require  or  deserve  :  and, 
pitying  myself  only,  I  looked  upon  his  stern  face  with  a  soul  whicb 
cherished  for  him  no  other  sentiment  than  that  of  unmitigated 
hatred. 

"  Do  not  shrink  from  me,  Gertrude,  as  you  read  thi=  frank  con 
fession  of  my  passionate  and,  at  that  moment,  deeply-stirred 
nature.  You  know  not,  perhaps,  what  it  is  to  hate ;  but  have  you 
ever  been  tried  as  I  was  ? 

"As  Mr.  Graham  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  I  approached 
his  house,  drew  forth  a  pass-key  of  my  own,  by  means  of  which  I 
opened  the  door,  and  went  in.  It  was  perfectly  quiet  withm,  and 
no  person  was  to  be  seen  in  any  of  the  lower  rooms.  I  then 
passed  noiselessly  up-stairs,  and  entered  a  little  chamber  at  the 
head  of  the  p;issage  which  communicated  with  Emily's  room.  I 
waited  here  a  long  time,  hearing  no  sound  and  seeing  no  one.  At 
len-th,  fearing  that  Mr.  Graham  would  shortly  return,  I  deter- 
mined 'to  ascend  to  my  own  room,  which  was  in  the  next  story,  col- 
lect mv  money,  and  a  few  articles  of  value,  which  I  was  unwdhug 
to  leave  behind,  and  then  make  my  way  to  the  kitchen,  and  gam 
what  news  I  could  of  Emily  from  Mrs.  Prime,  the  cook,  a  kmd- 
hearted  woman,  who  would,  I  felt  sure,  befriend  me. 

"The  first  part  of  my  object  was  accomplished,  and  I  had  de- 
scended the  back  staircase  to  gain  Mrs.  Prime's  premises  when  I 
suddenly  encountered  Mrs.  Ellis  coming  from  the  kitchen,  with  a 
bowl  of  gruel  in  her  hand.  This  woman  was  a  recent  addition  to 
the  household,  introduced  there  a  few  weeks  before  as  a  spy  upon 
my  actions,  and  intolerable  to  me  on  that  account.  She  was  well 
acquainted  with  all  the  particulars  of  the  accident,  and  had  been  a 
witness  to  mv  expulsion  from  the  house.  She  stopped  short  on 
Beein-  me,  ga've  a  slight  scream,  dropped  the  bowl  of  gruel,  and 
prepa^red  to  make  her  escape,  as  if  from  a  wild  beast,  whush  1 


TIIE  LAMPLIGIITEIl. 


40D 


doubt  not  that  I  resembled,  since  wretchedness,  fasting,  suffering, 
and  desperation  must  all  have  been  depicted  in  my  features. 

I  placed  myself  in  her  path,  and  compelled  her  to  stop  and  lis- 
ten to  me.  But  before  my  eager  questions  could  find  utterance, 
an  outburst  from  her  confirmed  my  worst  fears. 

*  *  Let  me  go  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  You  villain  !  you  will  be 
putting  my  eyes  out,  next ! ' 

'  Where  is  Emily  ? '  I  cried.    *  Let  me  see  her ! ' 
"  '  See  her  !  '  replied  she.    *  You  horrid  wretch  !    No  !  she  ha^ 
suffered  enough  from  you.    She  is  satisfied  herself  now;  so  let 
her  alone/ 

*' *  What  do  you  mean?'  shouted  I,  shaking  the  housekeeper 
violently  by  the  shoulder,  for  her  words  seared  my  very  soul,  and 
I  was  frantic. 

**  *  Mean?  '  continued  she.  *  I  mean  that  Emily  will  never  see 
anybody  again  ;  and,  if  she  had  a  thousand  eyes,  yoa  are  the  last 
person  upon  whom  she  would  wish  to  look  !  ' 

'  Does  Emily  hate  me,  too? '  burst  from  me  then^  in  the  form 
of  a  soliloquy  rather  than  a  question. 

"  The  reply  was  ready,  however.  '  Hate  you  ?  Yes,  — more 
than  that ;  she  cannot  find  words  that  are  bad  enough  for  you  ! 
She  mutters  even  in  her  pain,  cruel! — wicked  I  "  and  so  on. 
She  even  shudders  at  the  sound  of  your  name ;  and  we  are  all  for- 
bidden to  speak  it  in  her  presence.' 

"I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but,  turning,  rushed  out  of  the 
house. 

"  That  moment  was  the  crisis  of  my  life.  The  thunderbolt  had 
fallen  upon  and  crushed  me.  My  hopes,  my  happiness,  my  for- 
tune, my  good  name,  had  gone  before  ;  but  one  solitary  light  had 
until  now  glimmered  in  the  darkness.  It  was  Emily'a  love.  I 
had  trusted  in  that,  —  that  only.  It  had  passed  away,  and  with 
it  my  youth,  my  faith,  my  hope  of  heaven.  I  was  a  blank  on  the 
earth,  and  cared  not  whither  I  went,  or  what  became  of  mo. 

"  From  that  moment  I  ceased  to  be  myself.  Then  fell  upon  me 
the  cloud  in  which  I  have  ever  since  been  shrouded,  and  under 
the  shadow  of  which  you  have  seen  and  known  me.  In  that 
instant  the  blight  had  come,  under  the  gnawing  influence  of  which 
40 


470 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


my  happy  laugh  changed  to  the  bitter  smile  ;  ray  frank  and  pleas- 
ant  speech  to  tones  of  Unconcealed  irony  and  sarcasm  ;  my  hair 
be.<'ame  prematurely  gray,  my  features  sharp  and  oftentimes 
Beyere ;  my  fellow-men,  to  whom  it  had  been  my  noblest  hope  to 
prove  soirie"'  day  a  benefactor,  were  henceforth  the  armed  hosts  of 
antagonists,  with  whom  I  would  wage  endless  war;  and  the  God 
whom  I  had  worshipped,  —  whom  I  had  believed  in,  as  a  just  and 
faithful  friend  and  avenger,  — who  was  He?  — where  was  He?  — 
and  why  did  He  not  right  my  cause  ?  What  direful  and  premedi- 
tated deed  of  darkness  had  I  been  guilty  of,  that  He  should  thus 
desert  me  ?  Alas  !  —  greatest  of  all  misfortunes,  —  I  lost  my  faith 
in  Heaven !  ^ 
*'  I  know  not  what  direction  I  took  on  leaving  Mr.  Graham's 
house.  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  of  the  streets  through  which 
I  passed,  though  doubtless  they  were  all  familiar ;  but  1  paused 
not,  until,  having  reached  the  end  of  a  wharf,  I  found  myself  gaz^ 
ing  down  into  the  deep  water,  longing  to  take  one  mad  leap,  and 
lose  myself  in  everlasting  oblivion  ! 

But  for  this  final  blow,  beneath  which  my  manhood  had  fallen, 
I  would  have  cherished  my  life,  at  least  until  I  could  vindicate  its 
fair  fame  ;  I  would  never  have  left  a  blackened  memory  for  men 
to  dwell  upon,  and  for  Emily  to  weep  over.  But  now  what  cared 
I  for  my  fellow-men?  And  Emily  — she  had  ceased  to  love,  and 
would  not  mourn  ;  and  I  longed  for  nothingness  and  the  grave. 

There  are  moments  in  human  life  when  a  word,  a  look,  or 
thought,  may  weigh  down  the  balance  in  the  scales  of  fate,  and  de- 
cide' a  destiny. 

So  was  it  with  me  now.  I  was  incapable  of  formmg  any  plan 
for  myself;  but  accident,  as  it  were,  decided  for  me.  L  was 
Btartled  from  the  apathy  into  which  I  had  fallen  by  the  sudden 
splashing  of  oars  in  the  water  beneath,  and  in  a  moment  a  little 
boat  was'moored  to  a  pier  within  a  rod  of  the  spot  where  I  stood* 
At  the  same  instant  I  heard  quick  footsteps  on  the  wharf,  and, 
turning,  sacv  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  was  just  appearing 
from  behind  a  heavy  cloud,  a  stout,  sea-faring  man,  with  a  heavy 
pea-jacket  under  one  arm,  and  an  old-fashioned  carpet-bag  in  his 
left  hand.    He  had  a  ruddy,  good-humored  face,  and  as  he  ap 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


471 


proacljG(l,  and  was  about  to  pass  rae  and  leap  into  the  boat,  where 
two  sailors,  with  their  oars  dipped  and  ready  for  motion,  were 
awaiting  him,  he  slapped  me  heartily  on  the  shoulder,  and  ex- 
claimed, *  Well,  my  fine  fellow,  will  you  ship  with  us  ?  ' 

'•I  answered  as  readily  in  the  affirmative;  and,  with  one  look 
in  my  face,  and  a  glance  at  my  dress,  which  seemed  to  assure  him 
of  my  station  in  life,  and  probable  ability  to  make  compensation  for 
the  passage,  he  said,  in  a  laughiDg  tone,  *  In  with  you,  then  ! ' 

To  his  astonishment,  —  for  he  had  scarcely  believed  me  in 
earnest,  —  I  sprang  into  the  boat,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  on 
board  of  a  fine  bark,  bound  I  knew  not  whither. 

*'The  vessel's  destination  proved  to  be  Rio  Janeiro;  a  fact 
which  I  did  not  learn,  however,  till  we  had  been  two  or  three  days 
at  sea,  and  to  which,  even  then,  I  felt  wholly  indifferent.  There 
was  one  other  passenger  beside  myself, — ^the  captain's  daughter, 
Lucy  Grey,  whom,  during  the  first  week,  I  scarcely  noticed,  but 
who  appeared  to  be  as  much  at  home,  whether  in  the  cabin  or  on 
deck,  as  if  she  had  passed  her  whole  life  at  sea.  I  might,  per- 
haps, have  made  the  entire  passage  without  giving  another  thought 
to  this  young  girl,  — half  child,  half  woman,  —  had  not  my  strange 
and  mysterious  behavior  led  her  to  conduct  in  a  manner  which 
at  first  surprised,  and  finally  interested  me.  My  wild  and  ex« 
cited  countenance,  my  constant  restlessness,  avoidance  of  food, 
and  apparent  indifForence  to  everything  that  went  on  about  me, 
excited  her  wonder  and  sympathy  to  the  utmost.  She  at  first 
believed  me  partially  deranged,  and  treated  me  accordingly.  She 
would  take  a  seat  on  deck  directly  opposite  mine,  look  in  ray 
face  for  an  hour,  either  ignorant  or  regardless  of  my  observing  her, 
and  then  walk  away  with  a  heavy  sigh.  Occasionally  she  would 
come  and  ofFor  me  some  little  delicacy,  begging  that  I  would  try 
and  eat ;  and  as,  touched  by  her  kindness,  I  took  food  more  read- 
ily from  her  hand  than  any  other,  these  little  attentions  became  at 
last  habitual.  As  my  manners  and  looks  grew  calmer,  however, 
and  I  settled  into  a  melancholy,  which,  though  equally  deep,  was 
less  fearful  than  the  feverish  torment  under  which  I  had  labored, 
she  became  proportionately  reserved;  and  when,  at  last,  I  began 
to  appear  somewhat  like  my  fellow -men,  went  regularly  to  the 


THE  LAMPLIGiiTER. 


table,  and,  instead  of  pacing  the  deck  all  night,  spent  a  part  of  it, 
at  least,  quietly  in  my  state-room,  Lucy  absented  herself  whollj 
from  that  part  of  the  vessel  where  I  passed  the  greater  portion  of 
the  day,  and  I  seldom  exchanged  a  word  with  her,  unless  I  pur 
posely  sought  her  society. 

We  experienced  much  stormy  weather,  however,  which  drove 
me  to  the  cabin,  where  she  usually  sat  cn  the  transom,  reading,  or 
watching  the  troubled  waves;  and,  as  the  voyage  was  very  long, 
we  wej-e  necessarily  thrown  much  in  each  other's  way,  especially 
as  Captain  Grey,  the  same  individual  who  had  invited  me  to 
ship  with  him,  and  who  seemed  still  to  take  an  interest  in  my  wel 
fare,  good-naturedly  encouraged  an  intercourse  by  which  he  proba 
bly  hoped  I  might  be  won  from  a  state  of  melancholy  that  seemed 
to  astonish  and  grieve  the  jolly  ship-master  almost  as  much  as  it 
did  his  kind-hearted,  sensitive  child. 

Lucy's  shyness,  there rfore,  wore  gradually  away,  and  before  our 
tedious  passage  was  completed  I  ceased  to  be  a  restraint  upon 
her.  She  talked  freely  with,  or  rather  to  me  ;  for  while,  notwith- 
standing her  occasional  intimations  of  curiosity,  I  maintained  a 
rigid  silence  concerning  my  own  past  experiences,  of  which  I 
could  scarcely  endure  to  think,  much  less  to  speak,  she  exerted 
herself  freely  for  my  entertainment,  and  related,  with  simple 
frankness,  almost  every  circumstance  of  her  past  life.  Some- 
times I  listened  attentively;  sometimes,  absorbed  in  my  own 
painful  reflections,  I  would  be  deaf  to  her  voice,  and  forgetful  of 
her  presence.  In  the  latter  case,  I  would  often  observe,  however, 
that  she  had  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  and,  starting  from  my 
revery,  and  looking  quickly  up,  would  find  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
me  so  reproachfully  that,  rallying  my  self-command,  I  would  en- 
deavor to  appear,  and  not  unfrequently  really  became,  seriously 
interested  in  the  artless  narratives  of  my  little  entertainer.  She 
told  me  that  until  she  was  fourteen  years  old  she  lived  with  her 
mother  in  a  little  cottage  on  Cape  Cod,  their  home  being  only 
occasionally  enlivened  by  the  return  of  her  father  from  his  long 
absences  at  sea.  They  would  then  usually  make  a  visit  to  the 
city  where  his  vessel  lay,  pass  a  few  weeks  in  uninterrupted  en- 
joyment, and  at  length  return  home  to  mourn  the  departuie  o£ 


THE  LAMPLx'GHTER. 


473 


the  cheerful,  light-hearted  sea-captain,  and  patient!}^  count  the 
yreeks  and  months  until  he  would  come  back  again. 

**She  told  me  how  her  mother  died  at  last;  how  bitterly  she 
mourned  her  loss ;  and  how  her  father  wept  when  he  came  home 
and  heard  the  news;  how  she  had  lived  on  ship-board  ever  since, 
and  how  sad  and  lonely  she  felt  in  time  of  storms,  when,  the 
master  at  his  post  of  duty,  she  sat  alone  in  the  cabin,  listening  to 
the  roar  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

"  Tears  would  come  into  her  eyes  when  she  spoke  of  these  things, 
und  T  would  look  upon  her  with  pity,  as  one  whom  sorrow  made 
my  sister.  Trial,  however,  had  not  yet  robbed  her  of  an  elastic, 
buoyant  spirit;  and  when,  five  minutes  after  the  completion  of 
some  eloquent  little  tale  of  early  grief,  the  captain  would  approach 
unseen,  and  surprise  her  by  a  sadden  joke,  exclamation,  or  sly 
piece  of  mischief,  thus  provoking  her  to  retaliate,  she  was  always 
ready  and  alert  for  a  war  of  wit?,  a  laughing  frolic,  or  even  a  game 
of  romps.  Her  sorrow  forgotten,  and  her  tears  dried  up,  her 
merry  voice  and  her  playful  words  would  delight  her  father,  and 
the  cabin  or  the  deck  would  ring  with  his  joyous  peals  of  laughter; 
while  I,  shrinking  from  a  mirth  and  gayety  sadly  at  variance  with 
my  own  unhappiness,  and  the  sound  of  which  was  discordant  to 
my  sensitive  nerves,  would  retire  to  brood  over  miseries  for  which 
it  was  hopeless  to  expect  sympathy,  which  could  not  be  shared, 
and  with  which  I  must  dwell  alone. 

''Such  a  misanthrope  had  my  misfortunes  made  me  that  the 
sportive  raillery  between  the  captain  and  his  merry  daughter,  and 
the  musical  laugh  with  which  she  would  respond  to  the  occasional 
witticisms  of  one  or  two  old  and  privileged  sailors,  grated  upon 
my  ears  like  something  scarce  less  than  personal  injuries;  nor 
could  I  have  believed  it  possible  that  one  so  little  able  as  Lucy 
to  comprehend  the  depth  of  my  sufferings  could  feel  any  sincere 
compassion  for  them,  had  I  not  once  or  twice  been  touched  to  see 
how  her  innocent  mirth  would  give  place  to  sudden  gravity  and 
eadness  of  countenance,  if  she  chanced  unexpectedly  to  encounter 
my  woe-begone  face,  rendered  doubly  gloomy  when  contrasted 
with  the  gayety  of  herself  and  her  companions. 

But  1  must  not  linger  too  long  upon  the  details  of  our  life  od 
40* 


474 


THE  LAMPLIGHT  EK. 


ship-board;  for  I  bave  to  relate  events  wblch  occupied  manj 
years,  and  must  confine  myself,  as  far  as  possible,  to  a  concise 
statement  of  facts.  I  must  forbear  giving  any  account  of  a  terrific 
gale  that  we  encountered,  during  which,  for  two  days  and  a  night 
poor  Lucy  \^as  half-frantic  with  fear,  while  1,  careless  of  outward 
discomforts,  and  indifferent  to  personal  danger,  was  afforded  an 
opportunity  to  requite  her  kindness  by  such  protection  and  en- 
couragement as  I  was  able  to  render.  But  this,  and  various  other 
incidents  of  the  voyage,  all  bore  a  part  in  inspiring  her  with  a 
degree  of  confidence  in  me,  which,  by  the  time  we  arrived  in  p'Jit, 
was  |iUt  to  a  severe  and  somewliat  embarrassing  test 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 


Do  not  spurn  me 

In  my  i^rayer ! 
for  this  wiindering,  ever  longer,  evermore, 

Hatli  overworn  me, 
ind  I  know  not  on  what  shore 

I  may  rest  from  my  despair.  E.  I]  Buowninc. 

'*  (Japtai^  Orey  died.  We  were  within  a  week's  sail  of  om 
destination  w',.ien  he  v/as  taken  ill,  and  three  days  before  wo  were 
Bafely  anchored  in  the  harbor  of  Eio,  he  breathed  his  last.  I 
shared  with  Lucy  the  office  of  miaistering  to  the  suffering  man, 
closed  his  eyes  at  last,  and  carried  the  fainting  girl  in  my  arms  to 
another  part  of  the  vessel.  With  kind  words  and  persuasions  I 
restored  her  to  her  senses ;  and  then,  as  the  full  consciousness  of 
her  desolation  rushed  upon  her,  she  sunk  at  once  into  a  state  of 
hopeless  despondency,  more  painful  to  witness  than  her  previous 
condition  of  utter  insensibility.  Captain  Grey  had  made  no  pro- 
vision for  his  daughter  ;  indeed,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  do  so,  as  the  state  of  his  affairs  afterwards  proved.  Well 
might  the  poor  girl  lament  her  sad  fate  !  for  she  was  without  a 
relative  in  the  world,  penniless,  and  approaching  a  strange  shore, 
which  afforded  no  refuge  to  the  orphan.  We  buried  her  father  in 
the  sea;  and,  that  sad  office  fulfilled,  I  sought  Lucy,  and  endeav- 
ored, as  I  had  ecveral  times  tried  to  do  without  success,  to  arouse 
her  to  a  sense  of  her  situation,  and  advise  with  her  concerning  the 
future ;  for  we  were  now  so  near  our  port  that  in  a  few  hours  we 
might  be  compelled  to  leave  the  vessel  and  seek  quarters  in  tho 
city.    She  listened  to  me  without  replying. 

**  At  length  I  hinted  at  the  necessity  of  my  leaving  her,  and 


47(5  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

begged  to  know  if  she  had  any  plans  for  the  future  She  an- 
swered  me  only  by  a  burst  of  tears.  „      ,  ,  4 

"I  expressed  the  deepest  sympathy  for  her  grief,  anu  begged 

her  not  to  -weep.  .  1  p 

«  And  then,  with  many  sobs,  and  interrupting  herseli  by  fre- 
quent outbreaks  and  exclamations  of  vehement  sorrow,  she  tarew 
herself  upon  my  compassion,  and,  with  unaffected  simplicity  and 
child-like  artlessness,  entreated  me  not  to  leave,  or,  as  she  termed 
it,  to  desert  her.  She  reminded  me  that  she  was  all  alone  in  the 
world  ;  that  the  moment  she  stepped  foot  on  shore  she  snould  be 
in  a  land  of  strangers;  and,  appealing  to  my  mercy,  besought  me 
not  to  fcrsake  and  leave  her  to  die  alone. 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  I  had  nothing  on  earth  to  live  for.  W  e 
were  both  alika  orphaned  and  desolate.  There  was  but  one  point 
of  diffarenee.  I  could  work  and  protect  her ;  she  could  do  neither 
for  herself.  It  would  be  something  for  me  to  live  for;  and  for 
%er,  though  but  a  refuge  of  poverty  and  want,  it  was  better  than 
the  exposure  and  suffering  that  must  otherwise  await  her.  1  told 
her  plainly  how  little  I  had  to  offer;  that  my  heart  even  waa 
crushed  and  broken;  but  that  I  was  ready  to  labor  m  her  behalf, 
to  guard  her  from  danger,  to  pity,  and,  perhaps,  m  time,  learn  to 

love  her.  .  , 

"  The  unsophisticated  girl  had  never  thought  of  marriage  ;  she 
had  souo-ht  the  protection  of  a  friend,  not  a  husband ;  but  I 
exDlaiiied  to  her  that  the  latter  tie  only  would  obviate  the  neces- 
sity  of  our  parting;  and,  in  the  humility  of  sorrow,  she  finally 
accepted  my  unflattering  offer. 

"  The  only  confidant  to  our  sudden  engagement,  the  only  witness 
of  the  marriage,  which,  within  a  few  hours,  ensued,  was  a  veteraa 
mariner,  an  old,  weather-beaten  sailor,  who  had  known  and  loved 
Lucy  from  her  childhood,  and  whose  name  will  be,  perhaps,  famii- 
iar  to  you,— Ben  Grant.  He  accompanied  us  on  shore,  and  to 
tk.  church,  which  was  our  first  destination.  He  followed  us  to 
the  humble  lodgings  with  which  we  contrived  for  the  present  to 
be  contented,  and  devoted  himself  to  Lucy  with  self-sacrificuig, 
but  in  one  instance,  alas!  (as  you  will  soon  learn)  with  mistakBH 
and  fatal  zeal. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


477 


After  miicTi  difficulty,  T  obtained  employment  from  a  man  in 
wliom  I  accidentally  recognized  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  my 
father.  He  had  been  in  Rio  several  years,  was  actively  engaged 
in  trade,  and  willingly  employed  me  as  clerk,  occasionally  despatch- 
ing me  from  home  to  transact  business  at  a  distance.  My  duties 
being  regular  and  profitable,  we  were  soon  not  only  raised  above 
want,  but  I  was  enabled  to  place  my  young  wife  in  a  situation 
that  insured  comfort,  if  not  luxury. 

**The  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  the  cheerfulness  with  which 
she  endured  privation,  the  earnestness  with  which  she  strove 
to  make  me  happy,  were  not  without  eSect.  I  perseveringly 
rallied  from  my  gloom  ;  I  succeeded  in  banishing  the  frown  from 
my  brow ;  and  the  premature  wrinkles,  which  her  little  hand 
would  softly  sweep  away,  finally  ceased  to  return.  The  few 
months  that  I  passed  with  your  mother,  Gertrude,  form  a  sweet 
episode  in  the  memory  of  my  stormy  life.  I  came  to  love  her 
much,  —  not  as  I  loved  Emily  ;  that  could  not  be  expected,  —  but, 
as  the  solitary  flower  tliat  bloomed  on  the  grave  of  all  my  early  hopes, 
she  cast  a  fragrance  round  my  path  ;  and  her  child  is  not  more  dear 
to  me  because  a  part  of  myself  than  as  the  memento  of  the  cher- 
ished blossom,  snatched  hastily  from  my  hand,  and  rudely  crushed. 

About  two  months  after  your  birth,  my  child,  and  before  your 
eyes  had  ever  learned  to  brighten  at  the  sight  of  your  father,  who 
was  necessarily  much  from  home,  the  business  in  which  I  was 
engaged  called  me,  in  the  capacity  of  an  agent,  to  a  station  at 
some  distance  from  Eio.  I  had  been  absent  nearly  a  month,  had 
extended  my  journey  beyond  my  original  intentions,  and  had  writ- 
ten regularly  to  Lucy,  informing  her  of  all  my  movements  (though 
I  have  since  believed  that  the  letters  never  reached  her),  when 
the  neio-hborhood  in  which  I  was  stationed  became  infected  with 
a  fatal  malaria.  For  the  sake  of  ray  family,  I  took  every  meas- 
ure to  ward  off  t^ontagion,  but  failed.  I  was  seized  with  the  terri- 
ble fever,  and  lay  for  weeks  at  the  point  of  death.  I  was  cruelly 
neglected  during  my  illness ;  for  I  had  no  friends  near  me,  and 
ray  slender  purse  held  out  little  inducement  for  mercenary  service  ; 
but  my  sufferings  and  forebodings  on  account  of  Lucy  and  your- 
self  were  far  greater  than  any  which  I  endured  from  my  bodily 


478 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEH. 


torments,  alAongli  tlie  latter  were  great  indeed.  I  conj'jr<>'l  vik) 
every  fear  that  the  imagination  could  conceive  ;  but  nothing,  ?l-^sl 
which  could  compare  with  the  reality  that  awaited  me,  when,  a^ter 
an  almost  interminable  illness,  I  made  my  way,  destitute,  ragged, 
and  emaciated,  back  to  Rio.  I  sought  my  former  home.  It  was 
deserted,  and  I  was  warned  to  flee  from  its  vicinity,  as  the  fearful 
disease  of  which  I  had  already  been  the  prey  had  nearly  depopu- 
lated that  and  the  neighboring  streets.  I  made  every  inquiry, 
but  could  obta'"n  no  intelligence  of  my  wife  and  child.  I  hastened 
to  the  horrible  charnel-house  where,  during  the  raging  of  the  pesti- 
lence,  the  unrecognized  dead  were  exposed  ;  but,  among  the  disfig- 
ured and  mouldering  remains,  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish 
friends  from  strangers.  I  lingered  about  the  city  for  weeks,  in 
Lopes  to  gain  some  information  concerning  Lucy ;  but  could  find 
no  one  who  had  ever  heard  of  her.  All  day  I  wandered  about  the 
streets  and  on  the  wharves, — the  latter  being  places  which  Ben 
Grant  (in  whose  faithful  charge  T  had  left  your  mother  and  your- 
self)  was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting,  — but  not  a  syllable  could  I 
learn  of  any  persons  that  answered  my  description. 

My  first  thought  had  been  that  they  would  naturally  seek  my 
employer,  to  learn,  if  possible,  the  cause  of  my  prolonged  absence; 
and,  on  finding  my  home  empty,  I  had  hastened  in  search  o^  him. 
Bat  he,  too,  had,  within  a  recent  period,  fallen  a  victim  t3  Tae 
prevailing  distemper.  His  place  of  business  was  closed,  and  the 
establishment  broken  up.  I  prolonged  my  search  and  continued 
my  inquiries  until  hope  died  within  me.  I  was  assured  that 
scarce  an  inmate  of  the  fatal  neighborhood  where  I  had  left  my 
family  had  escaped  the  withering  blast ;  and  convinced,  finally, 
that  my  fate  was  still  pursuing  me  \^ith  an  unmitigated  wrath,  jf 
which  this  last  blow  was  but  a  single  expression,  that  I  might  have 
foreseen  and  expected,  I  madly  agreed  to  work  my  passage  in  tho 
first  vessel  which  promised  me  an  escape  from  scenes  so  fraught 
with  harrowing  recollections. 

And  now  commenced  in  truth  that  course  of  wretched  wander 
ing,  which,  knowing  neither  pause  nor  cessation,  has  made  up  the 
sum  of  my  existence.  With  varied  ends  in  view,  following  strong- 
ly-contrasted employments,  and  with  fluctuating  fortur.e,  T  have 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


479 


travelled  over  tlie  world.  My  feet  have  trodden  almost  every 
land ;  I  have  sailed  upon  every  sea,  and  breathed  the  air  of  every 
clime.  I  am  familiar  with  the  city  and  the  wilderness,  the  civil- 
ized man  and  the  savage.  I  have  learned  the  sad  lesson  that 
peace  is  nowhere,  and  friendship  for  the  most  part  but  a  name.  If 
I  have  taught  myself  to  hate,  shun,  and  despise  humanity,  it  is  be- 
cause I  know  it  well. 

Once,  during  my  wanderings,  T  visited  the  home  of  my  boy- 
hood. Unseen  and  unknown  I  trod  familiar  ground,  and  gazed 
on  familiar  though  tiuie-worn  faces.  I  stood  at  the  window  of 
Mr.  Graham's  library;  saw  the  contented,  happy  countenance  of 
Emily,  —  happy  in  her  blindness  and  her  forgetfulness  of  the  past. 
A  young  girl  sat  near  the  fire,  endeavoring  to  read  by  its  flicker- 
ing light.  I  knew  not  then  what  gave  such  a  charm  to  her  thought- 
ful features,  nor  why  my  eyes  dwelt  upon  them  with  a  rare  pleas- 
ure ;  for  there  was  no  voice  to  proclaim  to  the  father's  heart  that 
he  looked  on  the  face  of  his  child.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  strong 
impulse  which  prompted  me  then  to  enter,  acknowledge  my  iden- 
tity, and  beg  Emily  to  speak  to  me  a  word  of  forgiveness,  might 
not  have  prevailed  over  the  dread  of  her  displeasure  ;  but  Mr. 
Graham  at  the  moment  made  his  appearance,  cold  and  impla- 
cable as  ever;  I  looked  upon  him  an  instant,  then  fled  from  the 
house,  and  the  next  day  departed  for  other  lands. 

"  Although,  in  the  various  labors  which  I  was  compelled  to  un- 
dertake, to  earn  for  myself  a  decent  maintenance,  I  had  more  than 
once  met  with  such  success  as  to  give  me  temporary  independence, 
and  enable  me  to  indulge  myself  in  expensive  travelling,  I  had 
never  amassed  a  fortune  ;  indeed,  I  had  not  cared  to  do  so,  since  I 
had  no  use  for  money,  except  to  employ  it  in  the  gratification  of 
my  immediate  wants.  Accident,  however,  at  last  thrust  upon  me 
a  wealth  which  I  could  scarcely  be  said  to  have  sought. 

After  a  year  spent  in  the  wilderness  of  the  west,  amid  adven- 
tures the  relation  i  f  which  would  seem  to  you  almost  incredible, 
i  gradually  continued  my  retreat  across  the  country,  and,  after 
encountering  innumerable  hardships  in  a  solitary  journey,  which 
had  in  it  no  other  object  than  the  indulgence  of  my  vagrant  habits, 
I  found  myself  in  that  land  which  has  recently  been  termed  th« 


480 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


land  of  promise,  bui  wliicli  has  proved  to  many  a  greedy  emigrant 
a  kiirl  of  falsehood  and  deceit.  For  me,  however,  who  sought  it 
not,  it.  showered  gold.  I  was  among  the  earliest  discoverers  of  its 
treasure-vaults,  — one  of  the  most  successful,  though  the  least  la^ 
borious,  of  the  seekers  after  gain.  Nor  was  it  merely,  or,  indeed, 
chiefly,  at  the  mines  that  fortune  favored  me.  With  the  first  r(v> 
suits  of  my  labors  I  chanced  to  purchase  an  immense  tract  of  land, 
fettle  dreaming  at  the  time  that  those  desert  acres  were  des- 
iined  to  become  the  streets  and  sc^uares  of  a  great  and  prosper- 
-jus  city. 

*'So  it  was,  however;  and  without  effort,  almost  without  my 
own  knowledge,  I  achieved  the  greatness  which  springs  from  untold 
wealth. 

But  this  was  not  all.  The  blessed  accident,  which  led  me  to 
this  golden  land  was  the  means  of  disclosing  a  pearl  of  price,  a 
treasure  in  comparison  with  which  California  and  all  its  mines 
shrink  to  my  mind  into  insignificance.  You  know  how  the  war-cry 
went  forth  to  all  lands,  and  men  of  every  name  and  nation  brought 
their  arms  to  the  field  of  fortune.  Famine  came  next,  with  dis- 
ease and  death  in  its  train  ;  and  many  a  man,  hurrying  on  to  reap 
the  golden  harvest,  fell  by  the  way-side,  without  once  seeing  the 
waving  of  the  yellow  gram. 

Half  scornuig  the  greedy  rabble,  I  could  not  refuse,  in  this  my 
time  of  prosperity,  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  such  as  fell  in  my 
way ;  and  now,  for  once,  my  humanity  found  its  own  reward. 

A  miserable,  ragged,  half-starved,  and  apparently  dying  man 
crept  to  the  door  of  my  tent  (for  these  were  the  primitive  days, 
when  that  land  afforded  no  better  habitation),  and  asked  in  a 
feeble  voice  for  charity.  I  did  not  refuse  to  admit  him  into  my 
narrow  domicile,  and  to  the  extent  of  my  ability  relieve  his  suffer- 
ing condition.  He  proved  to  be  the  victim  of  want  rather  than 
disease,  and,  his  hunger  appeased,  the  savage  brutality  of  his  coarse 
nature  soon  manifested  itself  in  the  dogged  indifference  with  which 
he  received  a  stranger's  bounty,  and  the  gross  ingratitude  with 
which  he  abused  my  hospitality.  A  few  days  sufficed  to  restore 
him  to  his  full  strength;  and  then,  anxious  to  dismiss  my  visitor, 
whose  conduct  had  already  excited  suspicions  of  his  good  faith,  I 


TIIE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


481 


gave  him  warning  that  he  must  depart ;  at  the  same  thne  placincf 
in  his  hands  a  sufficient  amount  of  gold  to  insure  his  support  until 
he  could  reach  the  mines,  which  were  his  professed  destination. 

*'He  appeared  dissatisfied,  and  begged  permission  to  remain 
antil  the  next  morning,  as  the  night  was  near,  and  he  had  no  shel- 
ter provid_'d.  To  this  I  made  no  objection,  little  imagining  how 
base  a  serpent  I  was  harboring.  At  midnight  I  was  awakened 
from  my  light  and  easily-disturbed  sleep,  to  find  my  lodger  busily 
engaged  in  rifling  my  property,  and  preparing  to  take  an  uncere- 
monious leave  of  my  dwelling.  Nor  did  his  villany  end  here. 
Upon  my  seizing  and  charging  him  with  the  theft,  he  snatched  a 
weapon  which  lay  near  at  hand,  and  attempted  the  life  of  his  bene- 
factor. I  was  prepared,  however,  to  ward  off  the  stroke,  and  by 
means  of  my  superior  strength  succeeded  in  a  few  moments  in  sub- 
duing and  mastering  my  desperate  antagonist.  He  now  crouched 
at  my  feet  in  such  abject  and  mean  submission  as  might  have  been 
expected  from  so  contemptible  a  knave.  Well  might  he  tremble 
with  fear;  for  the  lynch-law  was  then  in  full  force,  and  summary 
in  its  execution  of  justice  upon  criminals  like  him.  I  should 
probably  have  handed  the  traitor  over  to  his  fate,  but,  ere  I  had 
time  tio  do  so,  he  by  chance  held  out  to  my  cupidity  a  bribe  so 
tempting,  that  I  forgot  the  deservings  of  my  knavish  guest  in  the 
eagerncbi^  with  which  I  bartered  his  freedom  as  the  price  of  its 
possession. 

He  freely  emptied  his  pockets  at  my  bidding,  and  restored  to 
me  the  gold,  for  the  loss  of  which  I  never  should  have  repined. 
As  the  base  metal  rolled  at  my  feet,  however,  there  glittered  among 
the  coins  a  jewel  as  truly  mine  as  any  of  the  rest,  but  which,  as 
it  met  my  sight,  filled  me  with  greater  surprise  and  rapture  than 
if  it  had  been  a  new-fallen  star. 

It  was  a  rinf^  of  peculiar  design  and  workmanship,  wliich  had 
once  been  the  property  of  my  father,  and  after  his  death  had  been 
worn  by  my  mother  until  the  time  of  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, when  it  was  transferred  to  myself.  I  had  ever  prized  it  as 
a  precious  heirloom,  and  it  was  one  of  the  few  valuables  which  I 
took  with  me  when  1  fled  from  my  step-father's  house.  This  ring, 
with  a  watch  and  some  other  trinkets,  had  been  left  in  the  posses- 
41 


,j.g2  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

Bion  of  Lucy  wten  I  parted  with  her  at  Kio,  and  the  s-glit  of  it 
once  more  seemed  to  me  like  a  voice  from  the  grave.  I  eagerly 
sou-ht  to  learn  from  my  prisoner  the  source  whence  it  had  been 
obtained,  but  he  maintained  an  obstinate  silence.  It  was  now  my 
turn  to  plead  and  at  length  the  promise  of  instant  permission  to 
depart,  '  unwhipped  by  justice,'  at  the  conclusion  of  his  I  ^le. 
from  him  a  secret  fraught  to  me  with  vital  interest.  What  1 
learned  from  him,  in  disjointed  and  often  incoherent  phrases,  i 
will  relate  to  you  in  few  words. 

"  This  man  was  Stephen  Grant,  the  son  of  my  old  friend  ben. 
He  had  heard  from  his  father's  lips  the  story  of  your  mother  s 
mi.sfortunes ;  and  the  circumstance  of  a  violent  quarrel,  which  arose 
between  Ben  and  his  vixen  wife,  at  the  young  stranger's  introduc- 
tion to  their  household,  impressed  the  tale  upon  his  recollection. 
From  his  account,  it  appeared  that  my  long-continued  absence  from 
Lucy,  during  the  time  of  my  illness,  was  construed  by  her  honest 
but  distrustful  counsellor  and  friend  into  voluntary  and  cruel 
desertion.    The  poor  girl,  to  whom  my  early  life  was  all  a  mystery 
wh^ch  she  had  never  shared,  and  to  whom  much  of  my  character 
and  conduct  was  consequently  inexplicable,  began  soon  to  feel 
convinced  of  the  correctness  of  the  old  sailor's  suspicions  and 
fears.    She  had  already  applied  to  my  employer  for  information 
concerning  me  ;  but  he,  who  had  heard  of  the  pestilence  to  which 
I  was  exposed,  and  fully  believed  me  to  be  among  the  dead,  toi^ 
bore  to  distress  her  by  a  communication  of  his  belief,  and  replied 
to  her  questionings  with  an  obscurity  which  served  to  give  new 
force  to  her  hitherto  vague  and  uncertain  surmises.    She  posi- 
tively refused,  however,  to  leave  our  home;  and,  clmgmg  to  tiie 
hope  of  my  final  return  thither,  remained  where  I  had  left  her 
until  the  terrible  fever  began  its  ravages.    Her  small  stock  of 
money  was  by  this  time  consumed  ;  her  strength  both  of  mind  and 
body  gave  way ;  and  ]3en,  becoming  every  day  more  confident  that 
the  simple-hearted  Lucy  had  been  betrayed  and  forsaken,  per- 
Buaded  her  at  last  to  sell  her  furniture,  and  with  the  sum  thus 
raised,  flee  the  infected  country  before  it  should  be  too  late,  bho 
Bailed  for  Boston  in  the  same  vessel  in  which  Ben  shipped  before 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEB. 


483 


the  inast ;  and  on  reaching  tliat  port,  her  hnmble  protector  took 

ter  immediately  tO  the  only  home  he  had  to  offer. 

**  There  your  mother's  sad  fate  found  a  mournful  termiiiatioii, 
and  you,  her  infant  child,  were  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  cruel 
woman,  who,  but  for  her  consciousness  of  guilt  and  her  fear  of  its 
betrayal,  would  doubtless  have  thrust  you  at  once  from  the  misera- 
ble shelter  her  dwelling  afforded.  This  guilt  consisted  in  a  foul 
robbery  committed  by  Nan  and  her  already  infamous  son  upon 
your  innocent  and  hapless  mother,  now  rendered,  througli  her  fee- 
bleness, an  easy  prey  to  their  rapacity.  The  fruits  of  this  vile 
theft,  however,  were  never  participated  in  by  Nan,  whose  promis* 
ing  son  so  far  exceeded  her  in  duplicity  and  craft,  that,  having 
obtained  possession  of  tho  jewels  for  the  alleged  purpose  of  barter- 
ing them  away,  he  reserved  such  as  he  thought  proper,  and  appro- 
priated to  his  own  use  the  proceeds  of  the  remainder. 

**  The  antique  ring  which  I  now  hold  in  my  possession,  the  price- 
less relic  of  a  mournful  tragedy,  would  have  shared  the  fate  of 
the  rest,  but  for  its  apparent  worthlessness.  To  the  luckbss  Ste- 
phen, however,  it  proved  at  last  a  temporary  salvation  from  tho 
felon's  doom  which  must  finally  await  that  hardened  sinner ;  and 
to  me  —  ah  !  to  me  —  it  remains  to  be  proved  whether  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  secrets  to  which  it  has  been  the  key  will  bless  my 
future  life,  or  darken  it  with  a  heavier  curse  !  Notwithstanding 
tKe  information  thus  gained,  and  the  exciting  idea  to  which  it  gave 
rise,  that  my  child  might  be  still  living  and  finally  restored  to  me, 
I  could  not  yet  feel  any  security  that  these  daring  hopes  were  not 
destined  to  be  crushed  in  their  infancy,  and  that  my  newly-found 
treasure  might  not  again  elude  my  eager  search.  To  my  inquiries 
concerning  you,  Gertrude,  Stephen,  who  had  no  longer  any  motives 
for  concealing  the  truth,  declared  his  inability  to  acquaint  me  with 
any  particulars  of  a  later  period  than  the  time  of  your  residence 
with  Trueman  Flint.  He  knew  that  the  lamplighter  had  taken 
you  to  his  home,  and  was  accidentally  made  aware,  a  few  montha 
later,  of  your  continuance  in  that  place  of  refuge,  from  the  old 
man's  being  (to  use  my  informant's  expression)  such  a  confounded 
fool  as  to  call  upon  his  mother  and  voluntarily  make  compensation 


,  THE  LAMPLIGIITER. 

for  injury  done  to  hei  windows  in  your  outburst  of  cMldisb 

revenge.  .  . 

"  Further  than  tliis  I  could  learn  notliing ;  but  it  was  cnougli  to 
in«oire  all  my  energies,  and  fill  me  with  one  desire  only, —  the 
recovery  of  ray  child.  I  hastened  to  Boston,  had  no  difSculty  m 
tracin-r  your  benefactor,  and,  though  he  had  been  long  since  dead. 
found°raany  a  truthful  witness  to  his  well-known  virtues.  Nor, 
when  I  asked  for  his  adopted  child,  did  I  find  her  forgotten  in  the 
quarter  of  the  city  where  she  had  passed  her  childhood.  More 
than  one  grateful  voice  was  ready  to  respond  to  ir.y  questioning, 
and  to  proclaim  the  cause  they  had  to  remember  the  girl  who,  hav- 
in^  experienced  the  trials  of  poverty,  made  it  both  the  duty  and 
the  pleasure  of  her  prosperity  to  administer  to  the  wants  of  a 
neighborhood  whose  sufferings  she  had  aforetime  both  witnessed 

and  shared.  .  , 

"  But  alas !  to  complete  the  sum  of  sad  vicissitudes  witli  whicU 
my  unhappy  destiny  was  already  crowded,  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  was  assured  of  my  daughter's  safety,  and  my  ears  were 
drinkln-  in  the  sweet  praises  that  accompanied  the  mention  of  her 
name,  there  fell  upon  me  like  a  thunder-bolt  the  startling  woi;ds 
•  She  is  now  the  adopted  child  of  sweet  Emily  Graham,  tuo  blind 

•   1  ? 

"'O  stran-e  coincidence!  0,  righteous  retribution  !  which,  at  the 
very  mo.nent^when  I  was  picturing  to  myself  the  consummat.oa  of 
my  cherished  hopes,  crushed  me  once  more  beneath  the  iron  hand 
of  a  destiny  that  would  not  be  cheated  of  its  victim  ! 

'<  My  child,  my  only  child,  bound  by  the  gratitude  and  love  of 
years  to  one  in  whose  face  I  scarcely  dared  to  look,  lest  my  soul 
should  be  withered  by  the  expression  of  condemnation  which  the 
consciousness  of  my  presence  would  inspire  ! 

"  The  «eas  and  lands,  which  had  hitherto  divided  us,  seemed  not 
to  my  tortured  fancy  so  insurmountable  a  barrier  between  myself 
ana  my  longdost  daughter  as  the  dreadful  reflection  that  the  only 
earthly  being  whose  love  I  had  hoped  in  time  to  win  had  been 
reared  from  her  infancy  in  a  household  where  my  very  name  waa 

tt  thing  abhorred.  ,  .    ii  - 

"  Stung  to  the  quick  by  the  harrowing  thought  that  all  my 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


485 


prayers,  entreaties,  anl  explanations  could  never  undo  her  early 
impressions,  and  that  alJ  ray  labors  and  all  my  love  could  never 
call  forth  other  than  a  cold  and  formal  recognition  of  my  claims,  or, 
worse  still,  a  feigned  and  hypocritical  pretence  of  filial  affection,  I 
half  resolved  to  leave  my  child  in  ignorance  of  her  birth,  and 
never  seek  to  look  upon  her  face,  rather  than  subject  her  to  the 
terrible  necessity  of  choosing  between  the  friend  whom  she  loved 
and  the  father  from  whose  crimes  she  had  learned  to  shrink  with 
horror  and  dread. 

**  After  wrestling  and  struggling  long  with  contending  and 
warring  emotions,  I  resolved  to  make  one  endeavor  to  see  and 
recognize  you,  Gertrude,  and  at  the  same  time  guard  myself  from 
discovery.  I  trusted  (and,  as  it  proved,  not  without  reason)  to 
the  immense  change  which  time  had  wrought  in  my  appearance, 
to  conceal  me  effectually  from  all  eyes  but  those  which  had  known 
me  intimately ;  and  therefore  approached  Mr.  Graham's  house 
without  the  slightest  fear  of  betrayal.  I  found  it  empty,  and 
apparently  deserted. 

I  now  directed  my  steps  to  the  well-remembered  counting-room, 
and  here  learned  from  a  clerk  (who  was,  as  it  proved,  but  ill- 
informed  concerning  the  movements  of  his  master's  family),  that 
the  whole  household,  including  yourself,  had  been  passing  the 
winter  in  Paris,  and  were  at  present  at  a  German  watering-place. 
Without  hesitation,  or  further  inquiry,  I  took  the  steamer  to 
Liverpool,  and  from  thence  hastened  to  Baden-Baden, — a  tri- 
fling excursion  in  the  eyes  of  a  traveller  of  my  experience. 

*'  Without  risking  myself  in  the  presence  of  my  step-father,  I 
took  an  early  opportunity  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, and,  thanks  to  her  unreserved  conversation,  made  myself 
master  of  the  fact  that  Emily  and  yourself  were  left  in  Boston,  and 
were,  at  that  time,  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Jeremy. 

It  was  on  my  return  voyage,  which  was  immediately  under- 
taken, that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Gryseworth  and  his 
daughter, — an  acquaintance  which  accidentally  proved  of  great 
value  in  facilitating  my  intercourse  with  yourself. 

Once  more  arrived  in  Boston,  Dr.  Jeremy's  house  also  wore  a 
desolate  appearance,  and  looked  as  if  closed  for  the  season.  Theni 
41* 


486 


THE  LAMPLT'^UTEE. 


was  a  man,  however,  making  some  repairs  about  the  dooi  steps 
who  informed  me  that  the  family  were  absent  from  town.  He  wis 
not  himself  aware  of  the  direction  they  had  taken ;  but  the  ser- 
vants were  at  horns,  and  could,  no  doubt,  acquaint  me  with  thei* 
route.  Upon  this,  I  boldly  rung  the  door-bell.  It  was  answered 
by  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  woman  who,  nearly  twenty  years  before,  had 
cruelly  and  unpityingly  sounded  in  my  ears  the  death-knell  of  all 
my  hopes  in  life.  I  saw  at  once  that  my  incognito  ^as  secure,  aa 
she  met  my  keen  and  piercing  glance  without  quailing,  shrinking, 
or  taking  flight,  as  I  fully  expected  she  would  do  at  sight  of  the 
ghost  of  my  former  self. 

"  She  replied  to  my  queries  as  coolly  and  collectedly  as  she  had 
probably  done  during  the  day  to  some  dozen  of  the  doctor's  dis- 
appointed patients,— telling  me  that  he  had  left  that  very  mom- 
in-  for  New  York,  and  would  not  be  back  for  two  or  three  weeks. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  favorable  to  my  wishes  than 
the  chance  thus  afforded  of  overtaking  your  party,  and,  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  travelling  companion,  introducing  myself  gradually  to  your 

notice.  •  tt, 

"You  know  how  this  purpose  was  effected;  how,  now  in  the 
rear  ai-d  now  in  advance,  I  nevertheless  maintained  a  constant 
proxin^ity  to  your  footsteps.  To  add  one  particle  to  the  comfort 
of  yourself  and  Emily,  —  to  learn  your  plans,  forestall  your  wishes, 
secPre  to  your  use  the  best  of  rooms,  and  bribe  to  your  service  the 
n.ost  devoted  of  attendants,  —  !  spared  myself  neither  pams,  fa- 
M<rxxe,  trouble,  nor  expense. 

"For  much  of  the  freedom  with  which  I  approached  you,  and 
made  myself  an  occasional  member  of  your  circle,  I  was  indebted 
to  Emily's  blindness;  for  I  could  not  doubt  that  otherwise  time 
and  its  changes  would  fail  to  conceal  from  her  my  identity,  and 
I  should  meet  with  a  premature  recognition.  Nor,  until  the  final 
act  of  the  drama,  when  death  stared  us  all  in  the  face,  and  con- 
cealmcnt  became  impossible,  did  I  once  trust  my  voice  to  her 

hearing.  ^       ,  ,      .  ,  j 

"  How  closely,  during  those  fow  weeks,  I  watched  and  weigned 
rour  every  word  and  action,  seeking  even  to  read  your  thought^s 
in  your  face,  none  can  tell  whose  aeuteness  is  not  sharpened  and 


THE  LAMPLTGHTEli. 


487 


rivified  by  motives  so  all-engrossing  as  mine ;  and  wbo  can  meas- 
ure the  anguish  of  the  fond  father,  who,  day  by  day,  learned  to 
worship  his  child  with  a  more  absorbing  idolatry,  and  yet  dared 
not  clasp  her  to  his  heart ! 

Especially  when  I  saw  you  the  victim  of  grief  and  trouble 
did  I  long  to  assert  a  claim  to  your  confidence  ;  and  more  than 
once  my  self-control  would  have  given  way,  but  for  the  dread  in- 
spired by  the  gentle  Emily  —  gentle  to  all  but  me.  I  could  not 
brook  the  thought  that  with  my  confession  I  should  cease  to  be 
the  trusted  friend,  and  become  the  abhorred  parent.  I  preferred 
to  maintain  my  distant  and  unacknowledged  guardianship  of  my 
child,  rather  than  that  she  should  behold  in  me  the  dreaded  tyrant 
who  might  tear  her  from  the  home  from  which  he  had  himself  been 
driven,  and  the  hearts  which,  though  warm  with  love  for  her,  were 
ice  and  stone  to  him. 

**  And  so  I  kept  silent;  and,  sometimes  present  to  your  sight, 
but  still  oftener  hid  from  view,  I  hovered  around  your  path,  until 
that  dreadful  day,  which  you  will  long  remember,  when,  everything 
forgotten  but  the  safety  of  yourself  and  Emily,  my  heart  spoke 
out,  and  betrayed  my  secret. 

And  now  you  know  all,  —  my  follies,  misfortunes,  sufferings, 
and  sins ! 

Can  you  love  me,  Gertrude?  It  is  all  I  ask.  T  seek  not  to 
steal  you  from  your  present  home  —  to  rob  poor  Emily  of  a  child 
whom  she  values  perhaps  as  much  as  I.  The  only  balm  my 
wounded  spirit  seeks  is  the  simple,  guileless  confession  that  you 
will  at  least  try  to  love  your  father. 

I  have  no  hope  in  this  world,  and  none,  alas  !  beyond,  but  in 
yourself.  Could  you  feel  niy  heart  now  beating  against  its  prison- 
bars,  you  would  realize,  as  I  do,  that  unless  soothed  it  will  burst 
ere  long.  Will  you  soothe  it  by  your  pity,  my  sweet,  my  darling 
riiild  ?  Will  you  bless  it  by  your  love  ?  If  so,  come,  clasp  your 
arms  around  me,  and  whisper  to  me  words  of  peace.  Withiu 
sight  of  your  window,  in  the  old  summer-house  at  the  end  of  th@ 
garden,  with  straining  ear,  I  wait  listening  for  your  footsteps 


CHAPTEE  XLVIII. 


Around  her  path  a  vision's  glow  is  cast, 
Back,  back  her  lost  one  comes  in  hues  of  morn . 
For  her  the  gulf  is  filled,  the  dark  night  fled, 
Whose  mystery  parts  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Hemans. 

As  Gertrude's  eyes,  after  greedily  devouring  tlia  manascripfi, 
fell  upon  its  closing  words,  slie  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  the  next 
instant  her  little  room  (the  floor  strewed  with  the  scattered  sheets 
which  had  dropped  from  her  lap  as  she  rose)  is  left  vacant.  She 
has  flown  down\he  staircase,  escaped  through  the  hall-door,  and, 
bounding  over  a  lawn  at  the  back  of  the  house,  now  wet  with  the 
evening  dew,  she  approaches  the  summer-house  from  the  opposite 
entrance  to  that  at  which  Mr.  Amory,  with  folded  arms  and  a 
fixed  countenance,  is  watching  for  her  coming. 

So  noiseless  is  her  light  step,  that,  before  he  is  conscious  of  her 
presence,  she  has  thrown  herself  upon  his  bosom,  and,  her  whole 
frame  trembling  with  the  vehemence  of  long-suppressed  and  now 
uncontrolled  agitation,  she  bursts  into  a  torrent  of  passionate 
tears,  interrupted  only  by  frequent  sobs,  so  deep  and  so  exhaust> 
ing  that  her  father,  with  his  arms  folded  tightly  around  her,  and 
clasping  her  so  closely  to  his  heart  that  she  feels  its  irregular  beat- 
ing, endeavors  to  still  the  tempest  of  her  grief,  whispering  softly, 
as^'to  an  infant,  "  Hush  !  hush,  my  child  !  you  frighten  mol  " 

And,  gradually  soothed  by  his  jrentle  caresses,  her  excitement 
subsides,  and  she  is  able  to  lift  her  face  to  his,  and  smile  upon  him 
through  her  tears.  They  stand  thus  for  many  minutes,  in  a 
Bilencl  that  speaks  far  more  than  words.  Wrapped  in  the  folds 
of  his  heavy  cloak  to  preserve  her  from  the  evening  air,  and  still 
encircled  in  his  strong  embrace,  Gertrude  feels  that  their  union  of 
spirit  is  not  less  complete;  while  the  long-banished  man,  who  fo. 


THE'  LAMPLIGHTER. 


489 


years  has  nevei  felt  the  sweet  influence  of  a  kindly  smile,  glows 
with  a  melting  tenderness  which  hardening  solitude  has  not  had 
the  power  to  subdue. 

Again  and  again  the  moon  retires  behind  a  cloud,  and  peeps 
out  to  find  them  still  iu  the  attitude  in  which  she  saw  them  last. 
At  length,  as  she  gains  a  broad  and  open  expanse,  and  looks 
clearly  down,  Mr.  Araory,  lifting  his  daughter's  face,  and  gazing 
uito  her  glistening  eyes,  while  he  gently  strokes  the  disordered 
hair  from  her  forehead,  asks,  in  an  accent  of  touching  appeal, 
**  You  will  love  me  then?  " 

*'0,  I  do!  I  do!''  exclaimed  Gertrude,  sealing  his  lips  with 
kisses. 

His  hitherto  unmoved  countenance  relaxes  at  this  fervent  assur- 
ance. He  bows  his  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  the  strong  man 
weeps. 

Not  long,  however.  Her  self-possession  all  restored  at  seeing 
him  thus  overcome,  Gertrude  places  her  hand  in  his,  and  startles 
him  from  his  position  by  the  firm  and  decided  tone  with  which  she 
whispers,  "  Come  !  " 

Whither?"  exclaims  he,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

**To  Emily." 

With  a  half  shudder,  and  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head,  he 
retreats,  instead  of  advancing  in  the  direction  in  which  she  would 
lead  him,  —  "I  cannot." 

''But  she  waits  for  you.  She,  too,  weeps  and  longs  and  prays 
for  your  coming." 

Emily  I  —  you  know  not  what  you  are  saying,  my  child  !  " 
Indeed,  indeed,  my  father,  it  is  you  who  are  deceived.  Emily 
does  not  hate  you ;  she  never  did.  She  believed  you  dead  long 
ago ;  but  your  voice,  though  heard  but  once,  has  half  robbed  her 
of  her  reason,  so  wholly,  so  entirely  does  she  love  you  still 
Come,  and  she  will  tell  you,  better  than  I  can,  what  a  wretched 
mistake  has  made  martyrs  of  you  both." 

Emily,  who  had  heard  the  voice  of  Willie  Sullivan,  as  he  bade 
Gertrude  farewell  on  the  door-step,  and  rightly  conjectured  that  it 
was  he,  forbore  making  any  inquiries  for  the  absent  girl  at  the 
*^a-table,  and,  thinking  it  probable  that  she  preferred  to  remaiii 


490 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


undisturbed,  retired  to  the  sitting-room  at  the  conchiSion  (f  the 
meal,  where  (as  Mr.  Graham  sought  the  library)  she  remained 
alone  for  more  th  m  an  hour. 

It  was  a  delightful,  social-looking  room.  The  fire  still  burned 
brightly,  sending  forth  a  ruddy  glow,  and  (as  the  evening  wa8 
unusually  chilly  for  the  season)  rendering  the  temperature  of  the 
great  old-fashioned  parlor  highly  agreeable.  There  were  candles 
under  the  mirror,  but  they  did  not  give  light  enough  to  destroy 
the  pleasant  effect  of  the  shadows  which  the  fire-light  made  upon 
the  wall  and  about  the  couch  where  Emily  was  reclining. 

The  invalid  girl,  if  we  may  call  her  such  (for,  in  spite  of  ilh 
health,  she  still  retained  much  of  the  freshness  and  all  the  loveli- 
ness of  her  girlhiod),  had,  by  chance,  chosen  such  a  position, 
opposite  to  the  cheerful  blaze,  that  its  flickering  light  played  about 
her  face,  and  brought  to  view  the  rich  and  unwonted  bloom  which 
inward  excitement  had  called  up  in  her  usually  pale  countenance. 
The  exquisite  and  refined  taste  which  always  made  Emily's  dress 
an  index  to  the  soft  purity  of  her  character  was  never  more 
strikingly  developed  than  when  she  wore,  as  on  the  present  occa- 
slop,  a  flowing  robe  of  white  cashmere,  fastened  at  the  waist  with 
a  silken  girdle,  and  with  full  drapery  sleeves,  whoso  lining  and 
border  of  snowy  silk  could  only  have  been  rivalled  by  the  delicate 
hand  and  wrist  which  had  escaped  from  beneath  their  folds,  and 
somewhat  nervously  played  with  the  heavy  crimson  fringe  of  a 
shawl,  worn  in  the  chilly  dining-room,  and  now  thrown  carelessly 
over  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 

Supporting  herself  upon  her  elbow,  she  sat  with  her  head  bent 
forward,  and,  as  she  watched  the  images  reflected  in  the  glass  of 
memory,  one  who  knew  her  not,  and  was  unaware  of  her  want  of 
sight,  might  have .  believed  that,  looking  forth  from  her  long, 
drooping  eyelashes,  she  was  tracing  imaginary  forms  among  the 
shining  embers,  so  intently  was  her  face  bent  in  that  direction. 

Occasionally,  as  the  summer  wind  sighed  among  the  branches 
-'•)f  the  trees,  causing  them  to  beat  lightly  against  the  window-pane, 
Bhe  would  lift  her  head  from  the  hand  on  which  it  rested,  and, 
gracefully  arching  her  slender  throat,  incline  in  a  hstening  atti- 
tude, and  then,  as  the  trifling  nature  of  the  sound  betrayed  itself^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


491 


ghe  would  sink,  with  a  low  sigh,  into  her  former  somewhat  listless 
position.  Once  Mrs.  Prime  opened  the  door,  looked  around  the 
room  in  search  of  the  housekeeper,  and,  not  finding  her,  retreated 
across  the  passage,  saying  to  herself,  as  she  did  so,  *'Law!  dear 
Bakes  alive  !  I  wish  she  only  had  eyes  now,  to  see  how  like  a  picter 
she  looks !  " 

At  length  a  low,  quick  bark  from  the  house-dog  once  more 
attracted  her  attention,  and  in  a  moment  steps  were  heard  crossing 
the  piazza. 

Before  they  had  gained  the  door,  Emily  was  standing  upright, 
straining  her  ear  to  catch  the  sound  of  every  foot-fall ;  and,  when 
Gertrude  and  Mr.  Amory  entered,  she  looked  more  like  a  statue 
than  a  living  figure,  as,  with  clasped  hands,  parted  lips,  and  one 
foot  slightly  advanced,  she  silently  awaited  their  approach. 

One  glance  at  Emily's  face,  another  at  that  of  her  agitated 
father,  and  Gertrude  was  gone.  She  saw  the  completeness  of  their 
mutual  recognition,  and,  with  instinctive  delicacy,  forbore  to  mar 
by  her  presence  the  sacredness  of  so  holy  an  interview. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her  retreating  figure,  Emily  parted  her 
clasped  hands,  stretched  them  forth  into  the  dim  vacancy,  and 
murmured  "  Philip  !  " 

He  seized  them  between  both  of  his,  and,  with  one  step  for- 
ward, fell  upon  his  knees.  As  he  did  so,  the  half-fainting  girl 
dropped  upon  the  seat  behind  her.  Mr.  Amory  bowed  his  head 
upon  the  hands,  which,  still  held  tightly  between  his  own,  now 
rested  on  her  lap  ;  and,  hiding  his  face  upon  her  slender  fingers, 
tremblingly  uttered  her  name. 

The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead  !  "  exclaimed  Emily.  *'  My 
God,  I  thank  thee  I  "  and,  extricating  her  hands  from  his  convul* 
Bive  grasp,  she  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  rested  her  head 
upon  his  bosom,  and  whispered,  in  a  voice  half  choked  with 
emotion,  '*  Philip  !  — dear,  dear  Philip  !  am  I  dreaming,  or  have 
you  come  back  again  ?  " 

The  conventional  rules,  the  enforced  restrictions,  which  often 
get  limits  to  the  outbursts  of  natural  feeling,  had  no  existence  for 
one  so  wholly  the  child  of  nature  as  Emily.  She  and  Philip  had 
loved         other  in  their  childhood ;  before  that  chiidh'jod  wa^i 


492 


THE  LAMFLIGKTER. 


fully  pa«t,  they  had  parted;  and  as  children  thoy  mot  again. 
During  the  lapse  of  many  years,  in  V7hich,  shut  out  from  the 
world,  she  had  lived  among  the  cherished  memories  of  the  past, 
she  had  been  safe  from  worldly  contagion,  and  had  retained  all 
the  gLiileless  simplicity  of  girlhood, — all  the  freshness  of  her 
spring-time ;  and  Philip,  who  had  never  willingly  bound  himself 
by  any  ties  save  those  imposed  upon  him  by  circumstance  and 
necessity,  felt  his  boyhood  come  rushing  upon  him  once  more,  as, 
with  Emily's  soft  hand  resting  on  his  head,  she  blessed  Heaven  for 
bis  safe  return.  She  could  not  see  how  time  had  silvered  his  hair, 
and  sobered  and  shaded  the  face  that  she  loved.  Whether  he 
came  in  the  shape  of  the  fiery-eyed  youth  that  she  saw  him  last, 
the  middle-:iged  man,  with  hoary  hair,  whose  years  the  curious 
found  it  hard  lo  determine,  or  the  glorified  angel  which  she  had 
pictured  to  herself  in  every  dream  of  heaven,  it  was  all  alike  to 
one  whose  world  was  a  world  of  spirits. 

And  to  him,  as  he  beheld  the  face  he  had  half  dreaded  to 
encounter  beaming  with  the  holy  light  of  sympathy  and  love,  the 
blind  girl's  countenance  seemed  encircled  with  a  halo  not  of  earth. 
And,  therefore,  this  union  had  in  it  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 
Had  they  wakened  on  the  other  side  the  grave,  and  soul  met  soul 
in  that  happy  land  where  the  long-parted  meet,  their  rapture  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  pure,  their  happiness  more  unalloyed. 

Not  until,  seated  beside  each  other,  with  their  hands  still  fondly 
clasped,  Philip  had  heard  from  Emily's  lips  the  history  of  her 
hopes,  her  fears,  her  prayers,  and  her  despair,  and  she,  while 
listening  to  the  sad  incidents  of  his  life,  had  dropped  upon  the 
hand  she  held  many  a  kiss  and  tear  of  sympatliy,  did  either  fully 
realize  the  mercy,  so  long  delayed,  so  fully  accorded  now,  which 
promised  even  on  earth  to  crown  their  days. 

Emily  wept  at  the  tale  of  Lucy's  trials  and  her  early  death ; 
and  when  she  learned  that  it  was  hers  and  Philip's  child  whom 
she  had  taken  to  her  heart,  and  fostered  with  the  truest  affection, 
ghe  sent  up  a  t.ilent  prayer  of  gratitude  tliat  it  had  been  allotted 
to  hor  apparently  bereaved  and  darkened  destiny  tD  fulfil  so 
blest  a  mission. 

T  could  love  her  more,  dear  Philip,"  exclaimed  she  while 


THE  LAMPLIGHrER. 


493 


the  tears  trickle  I  down  her  cheeks,  I  would  do  so,  for  your 
sake,  and  that  of  her  sweet,  innocent,  suffering  mother." 

And  you  forgive  me,  then,  Emily?"  said  Philip,  as,  both 
having  finished  thsir  sad  recitals  of  the  past,  they  gave  themselves 
up  to  the  sweet  reflection  of  their  present  joy. 

"  Forgive  1  —  0,  Phihp  !  what  have  I  to  forgive  ?  " 

**  The  deed  that  locked  you  in  prison  darkness,"  he  mournfally 
replied. 

"  Philip  ! "  exclaimed  Emily,  in  a  reproachful  tone,  *'  could  you 
for  one  moment  believe  that  I  attributed  that  to  you?  —  that  I 
blamed  you,  for  an  instant,  even  in  my  secret  thought?  " 

"Not  wilhngly,  I  am  sure,  dear  Emily.  But,  0,  you  have 
forgotten  what  /  can  never  forget,  —  that  in  your  time  of  anguish, 
not  only  the  obtruding  thought,  but  the  lip  that  gave  utterance  to 
it^  proclaimed  how  your  soul  refused  to  pity  and  forgive  the  cruel 
hand  that  wrought  you  so  much  woe  !  " 

"  You  cruel,  Philip  !  Never,  even  in  my  wild  frenzy,  did  I  so 
abuse  and  wrong  you.  If  my  unfilial  heart  sinfully  railed  against 
the  cruel  injustice  of  my  father,  it  was  never  guilty  of  such 
treachery  towards  you." 

That  aendish  woman  lied,  then,  when  she  told  me  that  you 
shuddered  at  my  very  name  ?  " 

If  I  shuddered,  Philip,  it  was  because  my  whole  nature 
recoiled  at  the  thought  of  the  wrong  that  you  had  sustained ;  and 
0,  believe  me,  if  she  gave  you  any  other  assurance  than  of  my 
continued  love,  it  was  because  she  labored  under  a  sad  and 
unhappy  error." 

Good  heavens  I  "  ejaculated  Philip.  How  wickedly  have  I 
been  deceived  !  " 

*'Not  wickedly,"  replied  Emily.  *^Mrs.  Ellis,  with  all  her 
stern  formality,  was,  in  that  instance,  the  victim  of  circumstances. 
She  was  a  stranger  among  us,  and  believed  you  other  than  you 
were ;  but,  had  you  seen  her  a  few  weeks  later,  sobbing  over  her 
share  in  the  unhappy  transaction  which  drove  you  to  desperation, 
and,  as  we  then  supposed,  to  death,  you  would  have  felt,  as  I 
did,  that  we  had  greatly  misjudged  her  in  return,  and  that  she 
carried  a  heart  of  flesh  beneath  a  stony  disguise.  The  bitternosa 
42 


494 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


of  her  grief  astonwbed  me  at  the  time ;  for  1  never  until  now  b^a 
reason  to  suspect  that  it  was  mingled  with  remorse  at  the  recol- 
lection of  her  own  harshness.  Let  us  forget,  however,  the  sad 
events  of  the  past,  and  trust  that  the  loving  hand  which  has  thus 
^ar  shaped  our  course  has  but  afflicted  us  in  mercy." 

In  mercy  !  "  exclaimed  Philip.  What  mercy  does  my  past 
experience  give  evidence  of,  or  your  life  of  everlasting  darkness? 
Can  you  believe  it  a  loving  hand  which  made  me  the  ill-fated 
instrument,  and  you  the  life-long  sufferer,  from  one  of  the  dreariest 
misfortunes  that  can  afflict  humanity  ?  " 

Speak  not  of  my  bhndness  as  a  misfortune,"  answered  Emily , 
"I  have  long  ceased  to  think  it  such.  It  is  only  through  the 
darkness  of  the  night  that  we  discern  the  lights  of  heaven,  and 
only  when  shut  out  from  earth  that  we  enter  the  gates  of  Para- 
dise. With  eyes  to  see  the  wonderful  working  of  nature  and 
nature's  God,  I  nevertheless  closed  them  to  the  evidences  of 
almighty  love  that  were  around  me  on  every  side.  While  enjoy- 
ing the  beautiful  and  glorious  gifts  that  were  showered  on  my 
pathway,  I  forgot  to  thank  and  praise  the  Giver  ;  but  with  an  un- 
grateful heart,  walked  sinfully  and  selfishly  on,  little  dreaming  of 
the  beguiling  and  deceitful  snares  which  entangle  the  footsteps  of 
youth. 

And  therefore  did  He,  who  is  ever  over  us  for  good,  arrest 
with  fatherly  hand  the  child  who  was  wandering  from  the  only 
road  that  leads  to  peace;  and,  though  the  discipline  of  his 
chastening  rod  was  sudden  and  severe,  mercy  still  tempered  jus- 
tice. From  the  tomb  of  my  buried  joys  sprang  hopes  that  will 
bloom  in  immortality.  From  the  clouds  and  the  darkness  broke 
forth  a  glorious  light.  What  was  hidden  from  my  outer  sight 
became  manifest  to  my  awakened  soul,  and  even  on  earth  my 
troubled  spirit  gained  its  eternal  rest.  Then  grieve  not,  dear 
Philip,  over  :he  fate  that,  in  reality,  is  for  from  sad ;  but  rejoice 
with  me  in  the  thought  of  that  blessed  and  not  far  distant  awak- 
ening, when,  with  restored  and  beatified  vision,  I  shall  stand 
before  God's  throne,  in  full  view  of  that  glorious  Presence,  from 
which,  but  for  the  guiding  light  which  has  bu  :st^upon  my  spirit 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


495 


through  the  veil  of  earthly  darkness,  I  might  have  been  eternally 
shut  out." 

As  Emily  finished  speaking,  and  Philip,  gazing  with  awe  upon 
the  rapt  expression  of  her  soul-illumined  face,  beheld  the  triumph 
of  an  immortal  mind,  and  pondered  on  the  might,  the  majesty  and 
power,  of  the  influence  wrought  by  simple  piety,  the  door  of  the 
room  opened  abruptly,  and  Mr.  Graham  entered. 

The  sound  of  the  well-known  footstep  disturbed  the  soaring 
thoughts  of  both,  and  the  flush  of  excitement  which  had  mounted 
into  Emily's  cheeks  subsided  into  more  than  her  wonted  paleness, 
as  Philip,  rising  slowly  and  deliberately  from  his  seat  at  her  side, 
stood  face  to  face  with  her  father. 

Mr.  Graham  approached  with  the  puzzled  and  scrutinizing  air 
of  one  who  finds  himself  called  upon  in  the  character  of  a  host 
to  greet  a  visitor  who,  though  an  apparent  stranger,  may  possibly 
have  claims  to  recognition,  and  glanced  at  his  daughter,  as  if  hoping 
she  would  relieve  the  awkwardness  by  an  introduction.  But  the 
agitated  Emily  maintained  perfect  silence,  and  every  feature  of 
Philip's  countenance  remained  immovable  as  Mr.  Graham  slowly 
came  forward. 

He  had  advanced  within  one  step  of  the  spot  where  Philip 
stood  waiting  to  receive  him,  when,  struck  by  the  stern  look  and 
attitude  of  the  latter,  he  stopped  short,  gazed  one  moment  into 
the  eagle  eyes  of  his  step-son,  then  staggered,  grasped  at  the 
mantle-piece,  and  would  have  fallen;  but  Philip,  starting  for- 
ward, helped  him  to  his  arm-chair,  which  stood  opposite  to  the 
sofa. 

And  yet  no  word  was  spoken.  At  length  Mr.  Graham,  who, 
h?.ving  fallen  into  the  seat,  sat  still  gazing  into  the  face  of  Mr. 
Amory,  ejaculated,  in  a  tone  of  wondering  excitement,  Philip 
Aiiory  !    0,  my  God  !  " 

v  Yes,  fath(u%"  exclaimed  Emily,  suddanly  rising  and  grasping 
her  father's  arm.  *'It  is  Philip  ;  he,  whom  we  have  so  long  be- 
lieved among  the  dead,  restored  to  us  in  health  and  safety !  " 

Mr.  Graham  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  leaning  heavily  ob  Em- 
il^  's  shoulder,  again  approached  Mr.  Amory,  who,  with  folded  arms, 
liiood  fixed  as  marble.    His  step  tottered  with  a  feebleness  never 


THE  LAMPLIGUTEK. 

before  observable  in  the  sturdy  frame  of  the  old  man,  and  th« 
hand  wbich  he  extended  to  Philip  was  marked  by  an  unusual 
tremulousncss. 

But  Philip  did  not  offer  to  receive  tb«  proffered  hand,  or  reply 
by  word  to  the  rejected  salutation. 

Mr.  Graham  turned  towards  Emily,  and,  forgetting  that  this 
neglect  was  shut  from  her  sight,  exclaimed  half-bitterly,  half- 
sadly,  "  I  cannot  blame  bira  !    God  knows  I  wronged  the  boy  !  " 

"Wronged  him!"  cried  Philip,  in  a  voice  so  deep  as  to  be 
almost  fearful.  "  Yes,  wronged  him,  indeed  !  Blighted  his  life, 
crushed  his.^  youth,  half-broke  his  heart,  and  wholly  blasted  his 
reputation !  " 

"  No  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Graham,  who  had  quailed  beneath  these 
accusations,  until  he  reached  the  final  one.  "  Not  that,  Philip! 
not  that !  I  never  harmed  you  there.  I  discovered  my  error 
before  I  had  doomed  you  to  infamy  in  the  eyes  of  one  of  your 
fellow-men." 

"  You  acknowledge,  then,  the  error?  " 

"  I  do,  I  do  !  I  imputed  to  you  the  deed  which  proved  to  have 
been  accomplished  through  the  agency  of  my  most  conadential 
clerk.  I  learned  the  truth  almost  immediately ;  but  too  late, 
alas'  to  recall  you.  Then  came  the  news  of  your  death,  and  I 
felt  that  the  injury  had  been  irreparable.  But  it  was  not  strange, 
Philip  ■  you  must  allow  that.  Archer  had  been  in  my  employment 
more  than  twenty  years.  I  had  a  right  to  believe  biui  trust- 
worthy." 

"  No  !  0,  no  ! "  replied  Philip.    "  It  was  nothaig  strange  that, 
a  crime  committed,  you  should  have  readily  ascribed  it  to  me. 
■  You  thought  me  capable  only  of  evil." 

"  I  was  unjust,  Philip,"  answered  Mr.  Graham,  with  an  attempt 
to  rally  his  dignity,  "but  I  had  some  cause,— I  had  some 

iausc."  ,  ^  ,, 

"  Perhaps  so,"  responded  Philip ;  "  I  am  willing  to  grant  tlia,. 
"  Let  us  shake  hands  upon  it,  then,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  aui 

endeavor  to  forget  the  past." 

Philip  did  not  again  refuse  to  accede  to  this  request,  th:»ugb 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


497 


thtsre  was  h\A  little  warmth  or  eagerness  in  the  manner  of  hi« 
compliance. 

Mr.  Graham,  seeming  now  to  think  the  matter  quite  ended, 
looked  relieved,  and  as  if  he  had  shaken  off  a  burden  which  had 
been  weighing  upon  his  conscience  for  years  (for  ho  had  a  con- 
science, though  not  a  very  tender  one)  ;  and,  subsiding  into  liis 
arm-chair,  begged  to  learn  the  particulars  of  Philip's  experience 
daring  the  last  twenty  years. 

The  outline  of  the  story  was  soon  told,  Mr.  Graham  listening 
to  it  with  attention,  and  inquiring  into  its  particulars  with  an 
interest  which  proved  that,  during  a  lengthened  period  of  regret 
and  remorse,  his  feelings  had  sensibly  softened  towards  the  step- 
son with  every  memory  of  whom  there  had  come  to  his  heart  a 
pat.g  of  self-reproach. 

Mr.  Amory  was  unable  to  afford  any  satisfactory  explanation  of 
the  report  of  his  own  death,  which  had  been  confidently  affirmed 
by  Dr.  Jeremy's  correspondent  at  Rio.  Upon  a  comparison  of 
dates,  however,  it  seemed  probable  that  the  doctor's  agent  had 
obtained  this  information  from  Philip's  employer,  who,  for  some 
weeks  previous  to  his  own  death,  had  every  reason  to  believe  that 
the  young  man  had  perished  of  the  infection  prevaiHng  in  the  low 
and  unhealthy  region  to  which  he  had  been  despatched. 

To  Philip  himself  it  was  an  almost  equal  matter  of  wonder  that 
•  his  friends  should  ever  have  obtained  knowledge  of  his  flight  and 
destination.  But  this  was  m.ore  easily  accounted  for,  since  the 
vessel  in  which  he  had  embarked  returned  directly  to  Boston,  and 
.  there  were  among  her  crew  and  officers  those  who  had  ample 
means  of  replying  to  the  inquiries  which  the  benevolent  doctor  had 
set  on  foot  some  months  before,  and  which,  being  accompanied  by 
the  offer  of  a  liberal  reward,  had  not  yet  ceased  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  public. 

Notwithstanding  the  many  strange  and  romantic  incidents  which 
were  unfolding  themselves,  none  seemed  to  produce  so  great "  an 
impression  upon  Mr.  Graham's  mind  as  the  singular  circumstance 
that  ':he  child  who  had  been  reared  under  his  roof,  and  endeared 
herself  to  him,  in  spite  of  some  clashing  of  interests  and  Dpinions, 
sliould  prove  to  be  Philip's  daughter.  As  he  left  the  room,  at 
42* 


498 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


ahe  conclusion  of  the  tale,  and  again  souglit  tbe  solitude  of  hh 
library,  lie  muttered  to  himself  more  than  once,  Singular  coiner 
dence  1    Yerj  singular'!  Very!" 

Hardly  had  he  departed,  before  another  door  was  timidly 
opened,  and  Gertrude  looked  cautiously  in. 

Her  father  went  quickly  towards  her,  and,  passing  his  arm 
around  her  waist,  drew  her  towards  Emily,  and  clasped  them  both 
in  a  long  and  silent  embrace. 

-  PhUlp,"  exclaimed  Emily.  can  you  still  doubt  the  mercy  and 
love  which  have  spared  us  for  such  a  meeting? 

0,  Eaiily  !  "  replied  he,  "I  am  deeply  grateful.    Teach  me 
how  and  where  to  bestow  my  tribute  of  praise." 

On  tae  hour  of  sweet  communion  which  succeeded  we  forbeai 
to  dwell ;  — the  silent  rapture  of  Emily,  the  passionately -expressed 
joy  of  Philip,  or  the  trusting,  loving  glances  which  Gertrude  cast 
upon  both. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Mr.  Amory  rose,  and  announced 
his  intention  to  depart.  Emily,  who  had  not  thought  of  his 
leaving  the  spot  which  she  hoped  he  would  now  consider  his  home, 
entreated  him  to  remain;  and  Gertrude,  with  her  eyes,  joined  in 
the  eao-er  petition.  But  he  persisted  in  his  resolation  with  a  firm- 
ness and  seriousness  which  proved  how  vain  would  be  the  attempt 
to  shake  it. 

"Philip,"  said  Emily,  at  length,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
*'  you  have  not  yet  forgiven  my  father." 

She  had  divined  his  thoughts.  He  shrank  under  her  reproach- 
ful tones,  and  made  no  answer. 

-  But  you  will,  dear  Philip,  —you  z^,"  continued  she,  in  a 

pleading  voice. 

He  hesitated,  then  glanced  at  her  once  more,  and  replied, 
will,  dearest  Emily,  I  will  —  in  time." 

When  he  had  gone,  Gertrude  lingered  a  moment  at  the  door, 
to  watch  his  retreating  figure,  just  visible  in  the  light  of  the  wan< 
ino.  moon  ;  then  returneJ  to  the  parlor,  drawing  a  long  breath  and 
Bayino-,  "  0,  what  a  day  this  has  been  !  "  but  checked  herself,  at 
the  si'^t  of  Emily,  who,  kneeling  by  the  sofa,  with  clasped  hands, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


4Dy 


uplifted  face,  and  with  her  white  garments  sweeping  thfe  floor, 
looked  the  very  impersonation  of  purity  and  prayer. 

Throwing  one  arm  around  her  neck,  Gertrude  knelt  on  the  flcor 
beside  her,  and  together  they  sent  up  to  the  throne  of  God  the 
incense  of  thanksgiving  and  praise  I 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


Thee  have  I  loved,  thou  gentlest,  from  a  child, 
And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the  sea,  — 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul,  —  speak !   O,  yet  live  for  me  i 

Hemans. 

WuEN  Uncle  True  died,  Jlr.  Cooper  reverently  buried  his  o\i 
friend  in  the  ancient  grave-yard  which  adjoined  the  church  where 
he  had  long  officiated  as  sexton.  It  was  a  dilapidated-looking 
place,  whose  half-fiillen  and  moss-grown  stones  proclaimed  its 
recent  neglect  and  disuse.  But  long  before  the  adjacent  and  time- 
worn  building  gave  place  to  a  modern  and  more  imposing  structure 
the  hallowed  remains  of  Uncle  True  had  found  a  quieter  resting- 
^lace. 

With  that  good  taste  and  good  feeling  which,  in  latter  days,  ha3 
dedicated  to  the  sacred  dead  some  of  the  fairest  spots  on  earth,  a 
beautiful  piece  of  undulating  woodland  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mr. 
Graham's  country  residence  had  been  consecrated  as  a  rural  cem- 
etery, and  in  the  loveliest  nook  of  this  sweet  and  venerated  spot 
the  ashes  of  the  good  old  lamplighter  found  their  final  repose. 

This  lot  of  land,  which  had  been  purchased  through  Willie's 
thoughtful  liberality,  selected  by  Gertrude,  and  by  her  made  fra- 
grant and  beautiful  with  summer  rose  and  winter  ivy,  now  enclosed 
also  the  forms  of  Mr.  Cooper  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  ;  and  over  these 
three  graves  Gertrude  had  planted  many  a  flower,  and  watered  it 
with  her  tears.  Especially  did  she  view  it  an  a  sacred  duty  and 
privilege  to  mark  the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  each  by  a  tribute 
of  fresh  garlands ;  and,  with  this  pious  purpose  in  view,  she  left 
Mr.  Graham's  houso  one  boautiiul  afternoon,  about  a  week  after 
the  events  took  place  which  are  narrated  in  the  previous  chapter. 

She  carried  on  ler  arm  a  basket,  which  contained  her  offering 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


501 


of  flowers ;  and,  as  slie  had  a  long  walk  before  her,  started  at  a 
rapid  ])aco.  Let  ns  follow  her,  and  briefly  pursue  the  train  of 
thought  which  accompanied  her  on  her  way. 

She  had  left  her  father  with  Emily.  She  would  not  ask  him  to 
]oin  her  in  her  walk,  though  he  had  once  expressed  a  desire  to  visit 
the  grave  of  Uncle  True ;  for  he  and  Emily  were  talking  togetbci 
eo  contentedly,  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  disturb  them ;  and  foi 
a  few  moments  Gertrude's  reflections  were  engrossed  by  the  thought 
of  their  calm  and  tranquil  happiness.  She  thought  of  herself,  too, 
ns  associated  with  them  both ;  of  the  deep  and  long-tried  love  of 
Emily,  and  of  the  fond  outpourings  of  affection  daily  and  hourly 
lavished  upon  her  by  her  newly-found  parent,  and  felt  that  she 
could  scarcely  repay  their  kindness  by  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime. 

Now  and  then,  as  she  dwelt  in  her  musings  upon  the  sweet  tie 
between  herself  and  Emily,  which  had  gained  strength  with  every 
succeeding  year,  and  the  equally  close  and  kindred  union  between 
father  and  child,  which,  though  recent  in  its  origin,  was  scarcely 
capable  of  being  more  firmly  cemented  by  time,  her  thoughts 
would,  in  spite  of  herself,  wander  to  that  earlier-formed  and  not 
less  tender  friendship,  now,  alas !  sadly  ruptured  and  wounded,  if 
not  wholly  uprooted  and  destroyed.  She  tried  to  banish  the 
remembrance  of  Willie's  faithlessness  and  desertion,  deeming  it 
the  part  of  an  ungrateful  spirit  to  mourn  over  past  hopes,  regard- 
less of  the  blessings  that  yet  remained.  She  tried  to  keep  in  mind 
the  resolutions  lately  formed  to  forget  the  most  painful  feature  in 
her  past  life,  and  consecrate  the  remainder  of  her  days  to  the  hap- 
piness of  her  father  and  Emily. 

But  it  would  not  do.  The  obtruding  and  painful  recollection 
presented  itself  continually,  notwithstanding  her  utmost  efforts  to 
repress  it,  and  at  last,  ceasing  the  struggle,  she  gave  herself  up 
for  the  time  to  a  deep  and  saddening  revery. 

She  had  received  two  visits  from  ¥/illie  since  the  one  already 
mentioned  ;  but  the  second  meeting  had  been  in  its  character  very 
similar  to  the  first,  and  on  the  succeeding  occasion  the  constraint  had 
increased  instead  of  diminishing.  Several  times  Willie  had  made 
an  apparent  effort  to  break  through  this  unnatural  barrier,  and 
Bpeak  and  act  with  the  freedom  of  former  days  ;  but  a  sudden 


502 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


blush,  or  sign  of  confusion  and  di^3tress,  on  Gertrude's  part,  de- 
terred him  from  any  further  attempt  to  put  to  flight  the  reserve  and 
want  of  confidence  which  subsisted  in  their  intercourse.  Again, 
Gertrude,  who  had  resolved,  previous  to  his  last  visit,  to  meet  him 
with  the  frankness  and  cordiality  which  he  might  reasonably 
expect,  smiled  upon  him  affectionately  at  his  coming,  and  offered 
her  hand  with  such  sisterly  freedom,  that  he  was  emboldened  to 
take  and  retain  it  in  his  grasp,  and  was  evidently  on  the  point  of 
unburdening  his  mind  of  some  weighty  secret,  when  she  turned 
abruptly  away,  took  up  some  trivial  piece  of  work,  and,  while  she 
seemed  wholly  absorbed  in  it,  addressed  to  him  an  unimportant 
question,  —  a  course  of  conduct  which  put  to  flight  all  his  ideas, 
and  disconcerted  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  stay. 

As  Gertrude  pondered  the  awkward  and  distressing  results  of 
every  visit  he  had  made  her,  she  half  hoped  he  would  discontinue 
them  altogether,  believing  that  the  feelings  of  both  would  be  less 
wounded  by  a  total  separation  than  by  interviews  which  must 
leave  on  the  mind  of  each  a  still  greater  sense  of  estrangement. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  had  not  yet  acquainted  him  with 
the  event  so  deep  in  its  interest  to  herself,  —  the  discovery  of  her 
dearly-loved  father.  Once  she  tried  to  speak  of  it,  but  found  her- 
self so  overcome,  at  the  very  idea  of  imparting  to  the  confidant  of 
her  childhood  an  experience  of  which  she  could  scarcely  yet  think 
without  emotion,  that  she  paused  in  the  attempt,  fearing  that, 
should  she,  cn  any  topic,  give  way  to  her  sensibilities,  she  should 
lose  all  restraint  over  her  feelings,  and  lay  open  her  whole  heart 
to  Willie. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  distressed  her  more  than  all  others. 
Tn  his  first  yaln  attempt  to  throw  off  all  disguise,  Willie  had  more 
than  intimated  to  her  his  own  unhappiness  ;  and,  ere  she  could 
find  an  opportunity  to  change  the  subject,  and  repel  a  confidence 
for  which  she  still  felt  herself  unprepared,  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to 
speak  mournfully  of  his  future  prospects  in  life. 

The  only  construction  which  Gertrude  could  give  to  this  confes- 
sion was  that  it  had  reference  to  his  engagement  with  Isabel ;  and 
;t  gave  rise  at  once  to  the  suspicion  that,  infatuated  by  her  beauty, 
he  had  impulsively  and  heedlessly  bound  himself  to  one  who  could 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


603 


never  make  him  wholly  happy.  The  little  scenes  to  which  she 
had  herself  been  a  witness  corroborated  this  idea,  as,  on  both 
occasions  of  her  seeing  the  lovers  and  overhearing  their  words, 
some  cause  of  vexation  seemed  to  exist  on  Willie's  part. 

"He  loves  her,''  thought  Gertrude,  **and  is  also  bound  to  hei 
in  honor;  but  he  sees  already  the  want  of  harmony  in  their 
natures.  Poor  Willie  !  It  is  impossible  he  should  ever  be  happy 
with  Isabel." 

And  Gertrude's  sympathizing  heart  mourned  not  more  deeply 
over  her  own  grief  than  over  the  disappointment  that  Willie  must 
be  experiencing,  if  he  had  ever  hoped  to  find  peace  in  a  union 
with  so  overbearing,  ill-humored,  and  unreasonable  a  girl. 

Wholly  occupied  with  these  and  similar  musings,  she  walked  on 
with  a  pace  of  whose  quickness  she  was  scarcely  herself  aware, 
and  soon  gained  the  shelter  of  the  heavy  pines  which  bordered 
the  entrance,  to  the  cemetery.  Here  she  paused  for  a  moment  to 
enjoy  the  refreshing  breeze  that  played  beneath  the  branches;  and 
then,  passing  through  the  gateway,  entered  a  carriage-road  at  the 
right,  and  proceeded  slowly  up  the  gradual  ascent.  The  place,  always 
quiet  and  peaceful,  seemed  unusually  still  and  secluded,  and,  save 
the  occasional  carol  of  a  bird,  there  was  no  sound  to  disturb  the 
perfect  silence  and  repose.  As  Gertrude  gazed  upon  the  familiar 
beauties  of  those  sacred  grounds,  which  had  been  her  frequent  resort 
during  several  years,  —  as  she  walked  between  beds  of  flowers, 
inhaled  the  fragrant  and  balmy  air,  and  felt  the  solemn  appeal,  the 
spiritual  breathings,  that  haunted  the  holy  place,  —  every  emotion 
that  was  not  in  harmony  with  the  scene  gradually  took  its  flight, 
and  she  experienced  only  that  sensation  of  sweet  and  half-joyful 
melancholy  which  was  awakened  by  the  thought  of  the  happy  dead. 

After  a  while,  she  left  the  broad  road  which  she  had  been  fol- 
lowing, and  turned  into  a  little  by-path.  This  she  pursued  for 
some  distance;  and  then,  again  diverging  through  another  and 
still  narro.^er  foot-track,  gained  the  shady  and  retired  spot  which, 
partly  from  its  remoteness  to  the  public  walks,  and  partly  from 
its  own  natural  beauty,  had  attracted  her  attention  and  recorn- 
mended  itself  to  her  choice.  It  was  situated  on  the  slope  of  a 
little  hill ;  a  huge  rock  protected  it  on  one  side  from  the  observa- 


504 


THE  LAMPLIGHTEE. 


tion  of  tbe  passer-bj,  and  a  fine  old  oak  overshadowed  it  upon  tho 
Giber.  The  iron  enclosure,  of  simple  workmanship,  was  nearly 
overgrown  by  tbe  green  ivy,  wbicb  had  been  planted  there  by 
GeUrude's  hand,  and  tbe  moss-grown  rock  also  was  festooned  by 
its  graceful  and  clinging  tendrils.  Upon  a  jutting  piece  of  stone, 
directly  beside  tbe  grave  of  Uncle  True,  Gertrude  seated  herself, 
as  was  her  wont,  and  after  a  few  moments  of  contemplation,  during 
wbicb  she  sat  with  her  elbow  upon  her  knee  and  her  bead  resting 
upon  her  band,  sbe  straightened  her  slight  figure,  sighed  heavily, 
and  then,  lifting  the  cover  of  her  basket,  emptied  her  flowers  upon 
the  grass,  and  with  skilful  fingers  commenced  weaving  a  graceful 
ehaplet,  wbicb,  when  completed,  sbe  placed  upon  the  grave  at  her 
teet.  With  tbe  remainder  of  tbe  blossoms  sbe  strewed  the  other 
mounds;  and  then,  drawing  forth  a  pair  of  gardening-gloves  and 
a  little  trowel,  sbe  employed  herself  for  nearly  an  hour  among 
the  flowers  and  vines  with  wbich  she  had  embowered  the  spot. 

Her  work  at  last  being  finished,  sbe  again  placed  berself  at  the 
foot  of  tbe  old  rock,  removed  her  gloves,  pusbed  back  from  her 
forehead  the  simple  but  heavy  braids  of  her  bair,  and  appeared  to 
be  resting  from  her  labors. 

It  was  seven  years  that  day  since  Uncle  True  died,  but  the  time 
had  not  yet  come  for  Gertrude  to  forget  the  simple,  kind  old  man. 
Often  did  his  pleasant  smile  and  cbeering  words  come  to  ber  in 
her  dreams ;  and  botb  by  day  and  night  did  the  image  of  him  who 
bad  gladdened  and  blessed  her  childbood  encourage  her  to  the 
imitation  of  his  humble  and  patient  virtue.  As  sbe  gazed  upon 
the  grassy  mound  that  covered  bim,  and  scene  after  scene  rose  up 
before  ber  in  which  tbat  earliest  friend  and  berself  had  wbiled 
away  tbe  happy  bours,  there  came,  to  embitter  tbe  otberwise  cher- 
ished remembrance,  tbe  recollection  of  tbat  third  and  seldom 
absent  one,  who  completed  and  made  perfect  tbe  memory  of  tbeir 
fireside  joys ;  and  Gertrude,  while  yielding  to  the  inward  reflec- 
tion, unconsciously  exclaimed  aloud,  0,  Uncle  True  !  you  and 
I  are  not  parted  yet ;  but  Willie  is  not  of  us  !  " 

0,  Gertrude,"  said,  a  reproachful  voice  close  at  her  side  ; 

is  Willie  to  blame  for  tbat? 

She  started,  turned,  saw  the  object  of  her  thoughts  WJtb  his 


THF  LAMPLIGHTER. 


505 


mild  sad  ejos  fixed  inquiringly  upon  her,  and,  without  repljing  to 
his  question,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet,  and,  as  on  the 
occasion  of  their  first  childish  interview,  gently  lifted  her  bowed 
head  from  the  hands  upon  which  it  had  fallen,  and  compelled  her 
to  look  him  in  the  face,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  most  ira- 
ploring  accents,  "  Tell  me,  Gerty,  in  pity  tell  me  why  am  1  ex- 
eluded  from  your  sympathy  ?  " 

But  still  she  made  no  reply,  except  by  the  tears  that  courst^I 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  You  make  me  miserable,"  continued  he,  vehemently.  "  What 
have  I  done  that  you  have  so  shut  me  out  from  your  afiection  ? 
Why  do  you  look  so  coldly  upon  me,  —  and  even  shrink  from  my 
sight  ? "  added  he,  as  Gertrude,  unable  to  endure  his  steadfast, 
searching  look,  turned  her  eyes  in  another  direction,  and  strove  to 
free  her  hands  from  his  grasp, 

"  I  am  not  cold,  —  I  do  not  mean  to  be,"  said  she,  her  voice 
half-choked  with  emotion. 

"0,  Gertrude,"  replied  he,  relinquishing  her  hands,  and 
turning  away,  "  I  see  you  have  wholly  ceased  to  love  me.  I 
trembled  when  I  first  beheld  you,  so  lovely,  so  beautiful,  and  so 
beloved  by  all,  and  feared  lest  some  fortunate  rival  had  stolen 
your  heart  from  its  boyish  keeper.  But  even  then  I  did  not 
dream  that  you  would  refuse  me,  at  least,  a  brother's  claim  to 
your  afiection." 

"  I  will  not,"  exclaimed  Gertrude  eagerly.  "  0,  Willie,  you 
must  not  be  angry  with  me !    Let  me  be  your  sister  !  " 

He  smiled  a  most  mournful  gmile.  "I  was  right,  then,"  con- 
tinued he ;  "  you  feared  lest  I  should  claim  too  much,  and  dis- 
couraged my  presumption  by  awarding  me  nothing.  Be  it  so. 
Perhaps  your  prudence  was  fcr  the  best ;  but  0,  Gertruds,  it 
has  made  me  heart-broken !  " 

"  Willie,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  with  excitement,  "  do  you  know 
How  sjbrangely  you  are  speaking  ?  " 

Strangely  ?  "  responded  Willie,  in  a  half-offended  tone.    "  Is 
it  so  strange  that  I  should  love  you?    Havel  not  for  years 
Aerished  the  remembrance  of  our  past  affection,  and  looked  for- 
42 


THE  LAMPLIGHTBK 


ward  to  our  reunion  as  my  only  hope  of  happiness  ?  lias  not 
this  fond  expectati->n  inspired  my 'abors,  and  cheered  ny  toils, 
and  endeared  to  me  ray  life,  in  spite  of  its  bereavements  '  And 
can  you,  in  the  very  sight  of  these  cold  mounds,  beneath  vhicli 
lie  buried  all  else  that  I  held  dear  on  earth,  crush  and  d  stroy; 
without  compassion,  this  solitary  but  all  engrossing  — " 

"Willie,"  interrupted  Gertrude,  her  calmness  suddenly  re- 
stored,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  but  serious  tone,  "  is  it  honoiabk 
for  you  to  address  me  thus  ?    Have  you  forgotten — " 

"  No,  I  have  twt  forgotten,"  exclaimed  he,  vehemently.  "  1 
have  not  forgotten  that  I  have  no  right  to  distress  or  annoy  you, 
and  I  will  do  so  no  more.  But,  0,  Gerty  !  my  sister  Gerty  (since 
all  hope  of  a  nearer  tie  is  at  an  end),  blame  me  not,  and  wondei 
not,  if  I  fail  at  present  to  perform  a  brother's  part.  I  cannot 
Btay  in  this  neighborhood.  I  cannot  be  the  patient  witness  of 
another's  happiness.  My  services,  my  time,  my  life,  you  may 
command,  and  in  my  far-distant  home  I  will  never  cease  to  pray 
that  the  husband  you  have  chosen,  whoever  he  be,  may  prove 
himself  worthy  of  my  noble  Gertrude,  and  love  her  one-half  as 
well  as  I  do  !  " 

"  Willie,"  said  Gertrude,  "  what  madness  is  this?  I  am  bouna 
by  no  such  tie  as  you  describe  ;  but  what  shall  I  think  of  your 
treachery  to  Isabel  ? " 

"  To  Isabel  ? "  cried  Willie,  starting  up,  as  if  seized  with  a  • 
new  idea.    "  And  has  that  silly  rumor  reached  yau  too  ?  and  did 
you  put  faith  in  the  falsehood  ?  " 

"Falsehood!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  lifting  her  hitherto  droop- 
ing eyelids,  and  casting  upon  him,  through  their  wet  lashes,  a  looli 
of  earnest  scrutiny. 

Calmly  returning  a  glanje  which  he  had  neither  avoided  noi 
quailed  under,  Willie  responded,  unhesitatingly,  and  with  a  tone 
of  astonishment  not  unmingled  with  reproach,  "  Falsehood  ? 
Yes.    With  the  knowledge  you  have  both  of  her  and  myself, 
could  you  doubt  its  being  such  for  a  moment  ?" 

0,  Willie  \ "  cried  Gertrude,  "  could  I  doubt  the  evidence 
of  my  own  eyes  and  ears  ?  Had  I  trusted  to  less  faithful  witness- 
es, I  might  have  been  deceived.    Do  not  attempt  to  conceal  from 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  SflTj 

oie  the  truth  to  which  my  own  observation  can  testify.  Treat 
me  with  frankness,  Willie!  —  Indeed,  indeed,  I  deserve  it  at 
your  hands ! " 

"  Frankness,  Gertrude !  It  is  you  only  who  are  mysterious. 
Could  I  lay  my  whole  soul  bare  to  your  gaze,  you  would  be  con- 
vinced of  its  truth,  its  perfect  truth,  to  its  first  affection.  And  as 
to  Isabel  Clinton,  if  it  is  to  her  that  you  have  reference,  your 
eyes  and  your  ears  have  both  played  you  false,  if — " 

"  O,  Willie  !  Willie  ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  interrupting  him, 
**Lave  you  so  soon  forgotten  your  devotion  to  the  belle  of  Saratoga, 
your  unwillingness  to  sanction  her  temporary  absence  from  your 
sight;  the  pain  which  the  mere  suggestion  of  the  journey  caused 
you,  and  the  fond  impatience  which  threatened  to  render  those 
few  days  an  eternity  ?  " 

^  "  Stop !  stop !  "  cried  Willie,  a  new  light  breaking  in  upon 
him,    and  tell  me  where  you  learned  all  this." 

"  In  the  very  spot  where  you  spoke  and  acted.  Mr.  Graham's 
parlor  did  not  witness  our  first  meeting.  In  the  public  prome- 
nade-ground, on  the  shore  of  Saratoga  lake,  and  on  board  the 
steamboat  at  Albany,  did  I  both  see  and  recognize  you — myself 
unknown.  There  too  did  your  own  words  serve  to  convince  me 
of  the  truth  of  that  which  from  other  lips  I  had  refused  to  be- 
lieve." 

The  sunshine  which  gilds  the  morning  is  scarcely  more  brio-ht 
and  gladsome  than  the  glow  of  rekindled  hope  which  now  ani- 
mated the  face  of  Willie. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Gertrude,"  said  he,  in  a  fervent  and  almost 
solemn  tone,  "  and  believe  that  in  sight  of  my  mother's  grave,  and 
in  the  presence  of  that  pure  spirit  (and  he  looked  reverently  up- 
ward) who  taught  me  the  love  of  truth,  I  speak  with  such  sincer- 
ity and  candor  as  are  fitting  for  the  ears  of  angels.  I  do  not 
question  the  accuracy  with  which  you  overheard  my  expostulationia 
and  entreaties  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Clinton's  proposed  journey, 
or  the  impatience  I  expressed  at  parting  for  her  speedy  return! 
I  will  nob  pause,  either,  to  inquire  where  the  object  of  all  my 
thoughts  could  have  been  at  the  time,  that,  notwithstanding  the 
changes  of  years,  she  escaped  my  eager  eyes.    Let  me  first'deai 


THE  LAMPLIQHTKU. 


myself  of  the  imputation  under  which  I  labor,  and  then  there  wUi 
be  room  for  all  further  explanations. 

"  I  did,  indeed,  feel  deep  pain  at  Miss  Clinton's  sudden  depart 
ure  for  New  York,  under  a  pretext  which  ought  not  to  have 
weighed  with  her  for  a  moment.    I  did  indeed  employ  every  at 
gument  to  dissuade  her  from  her  purpose;  and  when  my  elo- 
quence had  failed  to  induce  the  abandonment  of  the  scheme,  ] 
availed  myself  of  every  suggestion  and  motive  which  might  pos- 
sibly influence  her  to  shorten  her  absence.    Not  because  the 
society  of  the  selfish  girl  was  essential,  or  even  conducive,  to  my 
own  happiness,  —  far  from  it,  —  but  because  her  excellent  father, 
who  so  worshipped  and  idolized  his  only  child  that  he  would  have 
thought  no  sacrifice  too  great  by  means  of  which  he  could  add 
one  particle  to  her  enjoyment,  was,  at  that  very  time,  amid  all 
the  noise  and  discomfort  of  a  crowded  watering-place,  hovering 
between  life  and  death,  and  I  was  disgusted  at  the  heartlessness 
which  voluntarily  left  the  fondest  of  parents  deprived  of  all  fe- 
male tending,  to  the  charge  of  a  hired  nurse,  and  an  unskilful 
though  willing  youth  like  myself.    That  eternity  might,  in  Miss 
Clinton's  absence,  set  a  seal  to  the  life  of  her  father,  was  a 
thought  which,  in  my  indignation,  I  was  on  the  point  of  uttering  > 
but  I  checked  myself,  unwilling  to  interfere  too  far  in  a  matter 
which  came  not  within  my  rightful  province,  and  perhaps  excite 
unnecessary  alarm  in  Isabel.    If  selfishness  mingled  at  all  in  my 
views,  dear  Gerty,  and  made  me  over-impatient  for  the  return  of 
ihe  daughter  to  her  post  of  duty,  it  was  that  I  might  be  released 
from  almost  constant  attendance  upon  my  invalid  friend,  and 
hasten  to  her  from  whom  I  hoped  such  warmth  of  greeting  as  I 
was  only  too  eager  to  bestow.    Can  you  wonder,  then,  that  your 
reception  struck  cold  upon  my  throbbing  heart  ? '' 

"  But  you  understand  the  cause  ?f  that  coldness  now,"  said 
Gertrude,  looking  up  at  him  through  a  rain  of  tears,  which,  like 
a  summer  sun-shower,  reflected  itself  in  rainbow  smiles  upon  het 
happy  countenance.  "  You  know  now  why  I  dared  not  let  mj 
aea'Tt  speak  out." 

"  And  this  was  all,  then  ? cried  Wl-Ue  ;  "  and  you  are  free 

aad  I  maj  lore  you  ntill ' " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


509 


*  Free  from  all  bonds,  dear  Willie,  but  those  which  you  yourself 
i;iasped  around  me,  and  which  have  encircled  me  from  my  child- 
hood." 

And  now,  with  heart  pressed  to  heart,  they  pour  in  each  other's 
ear  the  tale  of  a  mutual  affection,  planted  in  infancy,  nourished  in 
youth,  fostered  and  strengthened  amid  separation  and  absence,  and 
perfected  through  trial,  to  bless  and  sanctify  every  year  of  their 
lifter  life. 

"  But,  Gerty,"  exclaimed  Willie,  as,  confidence  restored,  they 
sat  side  by  side,  conversing  freely  of  the  past,  "  how  could  you 
think,  for  an  instant,  that  Isabel  Clinton  would  have  power  to  dis- 
place you  in  my  regard  ?  I  was  not  guilty  of  so  great  an  injus- 
tice  towards  you  ;  for,  even  when  I  believed  myself  supplanted  by 
another,  I  fancied  that  other  some  hero  of  such  shining  qualities 
as  could  scarcely  be  surpassed." 

"  And  who  could  surpass  Isabel  ?  "  inquired  Gerty.  "  Can  you 
wonder  that  I  trembled  for  your  allegiance,  when  I  thought  of  her 
beauty,  her  fashion,  her  family  and  her  wealth,  and  remembered 
the  forcible  manner  in  which  all  these  were  presented  to  your  sight 
and  knowledge  ?  " 

"  But  what  are  all .  these,  Gerty,  to  one  who  knows  her  as  we 
do  ?  Do  not  a  proud  eye  and  a  scornful  lip  destroy  the  effect  of 
beauty?  Can  fashion  excuse  rudeness,  or  noble  birth  cover 
natural  deficiencies  ?  And,  as  to  money,  what  did  I  ever  want 
of  that,  except  to  employ  it  for  the  happiness  of  yourself —  and 
them  ? "~  and  he  glanced  at  the  graves  of  his  mother  and  grand- 
father. 

"  0,  Willie  !    You  are  so  disinterested  !  " 

"  Not  in  this  case.  Had  Isabel  possessed  the  beauty  of  a  Yenua 
and  the  wisdom  of  a  Minerva,  I  could  not  have  forgotten  how 
little  happiness  there  could  be  with  one  who,  while  devoting 
herself  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  had  become  dead  to  natural 
affections,  and  indifferent  to  the  holiest  of  duties.  Could  I  see 
her  flee  from  the  bed-side  of  her  father  to  engage  in  the  frivolities 
and  drink  in  the  flatteries  of  an  idle  crowd,  —  or,  when  unwillingly 
summoned  thither,  shrink  from  the  toils  and  the  watchings  imposed 
by  hi^  feebleness,  —  and  still  imagine  that  such  a  woman  could  bless 


510 


TKB  LAMPLIGHTER. 


and  adorn  a  fireside  ?  Conld  I  fail  to  contrast  lier  unfeeling 
neglect,  ill-concealed  petulance,  flagrant  levity  and  irreverence  of 
spirit,  with  the  sweet  and  lovnig  devotion,  the  saicHj  patience, 
and  the  deep  at.d  fervent  piety,  of  my  own  G  ertrude  I  should 
have  been  false  to  myself,  as  well  as  to  you,  dearest,  it  3uch  traits 
of  character  as  Miss  Clinton  constantly  evinced  could  have  weak- 
ened my  love  and  admiration  for  yourself.  And  now,  to  see  the 
little  playmate  whose  image  I  cherished  so  fondly  matured  into 
the  lovely  and  graceful  woman,  her  sweet  attractions  crowned  by 
80  much  beauty  as  almost  to  place  her  beyond  recognition,  and 
still  her  heart  as  much  my  own  as  ever  !  —  0,  Gerty,  it  is  too 
much  happiness  I  Would  that  I  could  impart  a  share  of  it  to 
those  who  loved  us  both  so  well ! " 

And  who  can  say  that  they  did  not  share  it  ?  —  that  the  spirit  ot 
Uncle  True  was  not  there,  to  witness  the  completion  of  his  many 
hopeful  prophecies  ?  that  the  old  grandfather  was  not  there,  to 
see  all  his  doubts  and  fears  giving  place  to  joyful  certainties 
and  that  the  soul  of  the  gentle  mother,  whose  rapt  slumbers  had, 
even  in  life,  foreshadowed  such  a  meeting,  and  who,  by  the  lessons 
she  had  given  her  child  in  his  boyhood,  the  warnings  spoken  to 
his  later  years,  and  the  ministering  guidance  of  her  disembodied 
spirit,  had  fitted  him  for  the  struggle  with  temptation,  sustained 
him  through  its  trials,  and  restored  him  triumphant  to  the  sweet 
friend  of  his  infancy,  —  who  shall  say  that,  even  now,  she  hov- 
ered not  over  them  with  parted  wings,  realizing  the  joy  prefigured 
in  that  dreamy  vision  which  pictured  to  her  sight  the  union  be- 
tween the  son  and  daughter  of  her  love,  when  the  one,  shielded 
by  her  fond  care  from  every,  danger,  and  snatched  from  the  power 
of  temptation,  should  be  restored  to  the  arms  of  the  other,  who, 
by  long  and  patient  continuance  in  well-doing  had  earned  SD  full 
a  recompcusej  so  all-sufficient  a  reward  I 


OHAPT£B  L. 


«^  trough  night  to  light — in  every  stags*. 
From  childhood's  morn  to  hoary  age. 
What  shall  illume  the  pilgrimage 
By  mortals  trod  1 

"  There  is  a  pure  and  heavenly  ray. 
That  brightest  shines  in  darkest  day, 
When  earthly  beams  are  quenched  for  aye  ; 
'T  is  lit  by  God." 

The  Ban  \ -as  casting  long  shadows,  and  the  sunset  liour  *wai 
near,  T^iien  Gertrude  and  Willie  rose  to  depart.  They  left  the 
cemetery  by  a  different  gateway,  and  in  the  opposite  direction  to 
that  by  which  Gertrude  had  entered.  Here  Willie  found  the 
chaise  in  which  he  had  come,  though  the  horse  had  contrived  to 
loosen  the  bridle  by  which  he  was  fastened ;  had  strayed  to  the 
side  of  the  road,  eaten  as  much  grass  as  he  wished,  or  the  place 
afforded,  and  was  now  sniffing  the  air,  looking  up  and  down  the 
road,  and,  despairing  of  his  master's  return,  seemed  on  the  point 
of  taking  his  departure. 

He  was  reclaimed,  however,  without  difficulty,  and,  as  if  glad 
after  his  long  rest  to  be  again  in  motion,  brought  them  in  half  an 
hour  to  Ml.  orraham's  door. 

As  soon  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  Gertrude,  familial 
with  the  customary  ways  of  the  family,  perceived  that  something 
unusual  was  going  forward.  Lamps  were  moving  about  in  every 
direction ;  the  front-door  stood  wide  open ;  there  was,  what  she  had 
never  seen  before,  the  blaze  of  a  bright  fire  discernible  through 
the  windows  of  the  best  chamber  ;  and,  as  they  drew  still  nearer, 
fehe  observed  that  the  piazza  was  half  covered  with  trunks. 

All  these  appearances,  as  she  rightly  conjectured,  betokened  fch« 


412 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER* 


arnval  of  Mrs.  Graham,  and  possibly  of  oclier  company.  Sli« 
might,  perhaps,  have  regretted  the  ill-timed  coming  of  this  bustling 
lady,  at  the  very  moment  when  she  was  eager  for  a  quiet  oppor- 
tunity to  present  Willie  to  Emily  and  her  father,  and  communicate 
to  them  her  own  happiness ;  but,  if  such  a  thought  presented 
itself,  it  vanished  in  a  moment.  Her  joy  was  too  complete  to  be 
marred  by  so  trifling  a  disappointment, 

"  Let  us  drive  up  the  avenue,  Willie,"  said  she,  "  to  the  side- 
door,  so  that  George  may  see  us.  and  take  your  horse  to  the 
stable." 

"  No,"  said  Willie,  as  he  stopped  opposite  the  front  gate  ;  "  I 
can't  come  in  now  —  there  seems  to  be  a  house  full  of  company ; 
and,  besides,  I  have  an  appointment  in  town  at  eight  o'clock,  and 
promised  to  be  punctual ;  " — he  glanced  at  his  watch  as  he  spoke, 
and  added,  "  it  is  near  that  already.  I  did  not  think  of  its  being 
BO  late ;  but  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  morning,  may  t  not  ?  " 
She  looked  her  assent,  and,  with  a  warm  grasp  of  the  hana  as  he 
helped  her  from  the  chaise,  and  a  mutual  smile  of  confidence  and 
love,  they  separated. 

He  drove  rapidly  towards  Boston,  and  she,  opening  the  gate, 
found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Fanny  Bruce,  who  had  been  impa- 
tiently awaiting  the  departure  of  Willie  to  seize  her  dear  Miss 
Gertrude,  and,  between  tears  and  kisses,  pour  out  her  congratula- 
tions and  thanks  for  her  happy  escape  from  that  horrid  steam- 
boat ;  for  this  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the  accident. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Graham  come,  Fanny  ?  "  asked  Gertrude,  as,  the 
first  excitement  of  the  meeting  over,  they  walked  up  to  the  house 
together. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mrs.  Graham,  and  Kitty,  and  Isabel,  and  a 
Sttle  girl,  and  a  sick  gentleman,  —  Mr.  Clinton,  I  believe ;  and 
mother  gentleman,  —  but  he  '5  gone." 

"  Who  has  gone  ?  " 

"  0,  a  tall,  dignified-looking  man,  with  black  eyes,  and  a  beau- 
uiul  face,  and  hair  as  white  as  if  he  were  old<  —  j^nd  he  is  n't  old, 
ft^tber." 

And  do  you  say  he  has  gone  ?  " 
^XJs;  he  did  n't  come  with  the  rest  tiras  here  ^heD  [ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


513 


caine,  ani.  iu  we  it  away  about  an  hour  ago.  I  heard  him  tell 
Bliss  Emily  that  he  had  agreed  to  meet  a  friend  in  Boston,  but 
perhaps  he 'd  come  back  this  evening.  I  hope  he  will.  Miss  Ger- 
trude ;  you  ought  to  see  him." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and,  through  the  open  door, 
Gertrude  could  plainly  distinguish  the  loud  tones  of  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham's voice,  proceeding  from  the  parlor  on  the  right.  She  was 
talking  to  her  husband  and  Emily,  and  was  just  saying,  as  Ger- 
trude entered,  "  0,  it  was  the  most  awful  thing  I  ever  heard  of 
in  my  life  !  and  to  think,  Emily,  of  your  being  on  board,  and 
our  Isabel !  Poor  child  !  she  has  n't  got  her  color  back  yet,  after 
her  fright.  And  Gertrude  Flint,  too !  By  the  way,  they  say 
Gertrude  behaved  very  well.    Where  is  the  child  ?  " 

Turning  round,  she  now  saw  Gertrude,  who  was  just  entering 
the  room,  and,  going  towards  her,  she  kissed  her  with  considerable 
heartiness  and  sincerity ;  for  Mrs.  Graham,  though  somewhat 
(»oarse  and  blunt,  was  not  without  good  feelings  when  the  occa^ 
sion  was  such  as  to  awaken  them. 

Gertrude's  entrance  having  served  to  interrupt  the  stream  of 
exclamatory  remarks  in  which  the  exciUible  lady  had  been  indulg- 
ing for  ten  minutes  or  more,  she  now  bethought  herself  of  the 
necessity  of  removing  her  bonnet  and  outside  garments,  a  part  of 
which,  being  loosed  from  their  fastenings,  she  had  been  dr^igging 
after  her  about  the  floor. 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  she,  "  I  suppose  I  had  better  follow  tho 
girls'  example,  and  go  and  get  some  of  the  dust  off  from  me  I 
I 'm  half  buried,  I  believe  !  But,  there,  that 's  better  than  com- 
ing on  in  the  horrid  steamboat,  last  night,  as  my  brother  Clinton 
was  so  crazy  as  to  propose.  Where 's  Bridget  ?  I  want  her  to 
i.ake  up  some  of  my  things." 

"  I  will  assist  you,"  said  Gertrude,  taking  up  a  little  carpet* 
bag,  throwing  a  scarf  which  had  been  stretching  across  the  room 
over  her  arm,  and  then  following  Mrs.  Graham  closely,  in  order 
to  support  the  heavy  travelling-shawl  which  was  hanging  half 
off  that  lady's  shoulders.  At  the  first  landing-plac  3,  however,  she 
found  herself  suddenly  encircled  in  Kitty's  warm  embrace,  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


laying  down  her  burdcis,  gave  herself  up  for  a  few  momGnts  lo  th^ 
hugging  and  kissing  that  succeeded. 

At  the  head  of  the  staircase  she  met  Isabel,  wrapped  in  a 
dressing-gown,  with  a  large  pitcher  in  her  hand,  and  a  most  dis- 
contented and  dissatisfied  expression  of  countenance.  She  set  the 
pitcher  on  the  floor,  however,  and  saluted  Gertrude  with  a  good 
grace.  "  I 'm  glad  to  see  you  alive,"  said  she,  "  though  I  can't 
look  at  you  without  shuddoring,  it  reminds  me  so  of  that  dreadful 
day  when  we  were  in  such  frightful  danger.  How  lucky  we  were 
to  be  saved,  when  there  were  so  many  drowned  !  I 've  wondered, 
ever  since,  Gertrude,  how  you  could  be  so  calm ;  I 'm  sure  1 
should  n't  have  known  what  to  do,  if  you  had  n't  been  there  to 
suggest.  But,  0,  dear!  don't  let  us  speak  of  it;  it's  a  thing  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of!  "  and,  with  a  shudder  and  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  Isabel  dismissed  the  subject,  and  called  somewhat  pet- 
tishly to  Kitty,  —  Kitty,  I  thought  you  went  to  get  our  pitcher 
tilled !  " 

Kitty,  who,  in  obedience  to  a  loud  call  and  demand  from  her 
aunt,  had  hastily  run  to  her  room  with  the  little  travelling-bag 
which  Gertrude  had  dropped  on  the  staircase,  now  came  back 
quite  out  of  breath,  saying,  "  I  did  ring  the  bell,  twice.  Has  n't 
anybody  come  ?  " 

"  No !  "  replied  Belle ;  "  and  I  should  like  to  wash  my  face 
and  curl  my  hair  before  tea,  if  I  could." 

*'  Let  me  take  the  pitcher,"  said  Gertrude  ;  "  I  am  going  down 
stairs,  and  will  send  Jane  up  with  the  water." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Belle,  rather  feebly;  while  Kitty  exclaimed, 
**  No,  no,  Gertrude ;  I  '11  go  myself." 

But  it  was  too  late  ;  Gertrude  had  gone. 

Gertrude  found  Mrs.  Ellis  full  of  troubles  and  perplexities. 
"  Only  think,"  said  the  astonished  housekeeper,  "  of  their  commg. 
five  of  them,  without  the  least  warning  in  the  world;  and  here 
I 've  nothing  in  the  house  fit  for  tea  ;  —  not  a  bit  of  rich  cake,  not 
a  scrap  of  cold  ham  !  And,  of  course,  they  're  hungry  after  their 
long  journey,  and  will  waut  something  nice  !  " 

*  O,  if  they  are  very  hungry,  IMrs.  Ellis,  they  can  eat  dried 
beef,  and  fresh  biscuit,  and  plain  cake    and,  if  you  will  give  ma 


THE  LAMPLIGHTBP>. 


Dl5 


the  kejs,  I  VflW  get  out  the  preserves,  and  the  best  gilvei,  raid  se3 
that  the  table  is  set  properly." 

Nothing  was  a  trouble  to  Gertrude,  that  night.  Everything 
ti^at  she  touched  went  right.  Jane  caught  her  spirit,  and  became 
astonishingly  active;  and  when  the  really  bountiful  table  was 
spread,  and  Mrs.  Ellis,  after  glancing  around,  and  seeing  that  all 
was  as  it  should  bcy  looked  into  the  beaming  eyes  and  observed 
the  glowing  cheek  and  sunny  smile  of  the  happy  girl,  she  ex- 
claimed, in  her  ignorance,  Good  gracious,  Gertrude !  anybody 
would  think  you  were  overjoyed  to  see  all  these  folks  back 
again  !  " 

It  wanted  but  a  few  moments  to  tea-time,  and  Gertrude  was 
selecting  fresh  napkins  from  a  drawer  in  the  china-closet,  when 
Kitty  Eay  peeped  in  at  the  door,  and  finally  entered,  leading  by 
thi>  hand  a  little  girl,  neatly  dressed  in  black.  Her  face  was,  at 
firsts  full  of  smiles ;  but,  the  moment  she  attempted  to  speak,  she 
burst  into  tears,  and,  throwing  her  arms  round  Gertrude's  neck 
whispered  in  her  ear,  "  0,  Gertrude,  I 'm  so  happy  I  I  came  to 
tell  you  !  " 

"  Happy  ?  "  replied  Gertrude ;  "  then  you  must  n't  cry." 

Upon  this,  Kitty  laughed,  and  then  cried  again,  and  then 
laughed  once  more,  and,  in  the  intervals,  explained  to  Gertrude 
that  she  was  engaged,  —  had  been  engaged  a  week,  to  the  best 
man  in  the  world,  —  and  that  the  child  she  held  by  the  hand  was 
his  orphan  niece,  and  just  like  a  daughter  to  him.  "  iVnd,  only 
think,"  continued  she,  "it 's  all  owing  to  you!" 

*'  To  me  ?  "  said  the  astonished  Gertrude. 

"  Yes ;  because  I  was  so  vain  and  silly,  you  know,  and  liked 
folks  that  were  not  worth  liking,  and  didn't  care  much  for  anybody 'b 
comfort  but  my  own ;  and,  if  you  had  n't  taught  me  to  be  some- 
thing better  than  that,  and  set  me  a  good  example,  which  I 've 
tried  to  follow  ever  since,  he  never  would  have  thought  of  looking 
at  me,  much  less  loving  me,  and  believing  I  should  be  a  fit  mother 
for  little  Gracie,  here,"  and  she  looked  down  affectionately  at  the 
child,  who  was  clinging  fondly  t)  her.  "  He  is  a  miuister,  Ger- 
trude, and  very  good.  Only  think  of  such  a  childish  creaure  af 
I  am  being  a  minister's  wife  I  " 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


The  sympathy  which  Kitty  came  to  claim  was  not  denied  her^ 
Eind  Gertrude,  with  her  own  eyes  brimmiL^  with  tears,  assured 
her  of  her  full  participation  in  her  joy. 

in  the  mean  time,  little  Grace,  who  still  clung  to  Kitty  with 
one  hand,  had  gently  inserted  the  other  within  that  of  Gertrude, 
who,  looking  down  upon  her  for  the  first  time,  recognized  the 
jhild  whom  she  had  rescued  from  persecution  in  the  drawing-room 
at  Saratoga. 

Kitty  was  charmed  with  the  coincidence,  and  Gertrude,  as  she 
remarked  the  happy  transformation  which  had  already  been  effect- 
ed in  the  countenance  and  dress  of  the  little  girl  who  had  been 
so  sadly  in  want  of  female  superintendence,  felt  an  added  convic- 
tion of  the  wisdom  of  the  young  clergyman's  choice. 

Kitty  was  eager  to  give  Gertrude  a  description  of  her  lover, 
but  a  summons  to  the  tea-table  compelled  her  to  postpone  all  fur- 
ther communications. 

Mr.  Graham's  cheerful  parlor  had  never  looked  so  cheerful  as 
on  that  evening.  The  weather  was  mild,  but  a  light  fire,  which 
had  been  kindled  on  Mr.  Clinton's  account,  did  not  render  the 
room  too  warm.  It  had,  however,  driven  the  young  people  into 
a  remote  corner,  leaving  the  neighborhood  of  the  fireplace  to  Mrs, 
Graham  and  Emily,  who  occupied  the  sofa,  and  Mr.  Clinton  and 
M^r.  Graham,  whose  arm-chairs  were  placed  on  the  opposite  side. 

This  arrangement  enabled  Mr.  Graham  to  converse  freely  and 
uninterruptedly  with  his  guest  upon  some  grave  topic  of  interest, 
while  his  talkative  wife  entertained  herself  and  Emily  by  a  reca- 
pitulation of  her  travels  and  adventures.  On  a  table,  at  the  further 
extremity  of  the  room,  was  placed  a  huge  portfolio  of  beautiful 
engravings,  recently  purchased  and  brought  home  by  Mr.  Graham, 
and  representing  a  series  of  European  views.  Gertrude  and  Kitty 
were  turning  them  carefully  over ;  and  little  G^race,  who  was  sit- 
ting in  Kitty's  lap,  and  Fanny,  who  was  leaning  over  Gertrude's 
shoulder,  were  listening  eag'^rly  to  the  young  ladies'  explanatieaa 
and  comments. 

Occasionally  Isabel,  the.  only  restless  or  ..^occupied  person 
present,  would  lean  over  the  table  to  glance  at  the  likeness  of 
some  familiar  spot,  and  exclaim,  "  Kitty,  there 's  the  shop  wher-^  * 


THE  LA-MPLIGHTEK. 


517 


^oi^ght  my  Llue  silk !  "  or,  Kitty,  there 's  the  waterfall  that  we 
risited  iii  compiiny  with  the  Russian  officers !  " 

Wti"'e  tiie  a3s.embled  company  were  thus  occupied,  the  door 
i)peax\  vvd,  wichoat  any  announcement,  Mr.  Amory  and  Wiilian* 
Sulli      3. Tiered. 

Had  t\iher  mads  Lis  appearance  singly,  he  would  have  been 
Itioisd  upcn  Mi^h  asvoauLment  by  the  majority  of  the  company  ; 
bat  cciniA^,  as  they  did,  ttgother,  and  with  an  apparently  good 
un-ierstandii:g  enistirg  bot^yoen  them,  there  was  no  countenance 
present  (save  the  chMrea'o)  ^vMch  expressed  any  emotion  but 
that  of  utter  surprise. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graham,  hoT\  e  jlt,  were  too  much  accustomed  to 
society  to  betray  any  furchor  e\\L  e.iee  of  that  sentiment  than  was 
contained  in  a  momentary  glance,  isiA^  rising,  received  their  visitors 
with  due  politeness  and  propriety.  Tho  former  nodded  carelessly 
to  iMr.  Amory,  whom  he  had  seen  in  tot  morning,  presented  him 
to  Mr.  Clinton  (without,  however,  niontioi:ii:g  the  existing  connec- 
tion with  himself),  and  was  preparing  to  go  tLrcugh  the  same  cere- 
mony to  jMrs.  Graham,  but  was  saved  the  trouolo,  as  she  had  not 
forgotten  the  acquaintance  formed  at  Baden-Eaden. 

Willie's  knowledge  of  the  company  also  :^pared  ihe  necessity  of 
introduction  to  all  but  Emily ;  and  that  being  accidauttJIy  omitted, 
he  gave  an  arch  glance  at  Gertrude,  and,  ticking  an  olTe^ed  seat 
near  Isabel,  entered  into  conversation  with  her ;  Mi\  AmDiy  being 
in  like  manner  engrossed  by  Mrs.  Graham. 

•'  Miss  Gertrude,"  whispered  Fanny,  as  soon  as  the  intenupud 
composure  of  the  party  was  once  more  restored,  and  glancing  at 
Willie,  as  she  spoke,  "  that 's  the  gentleman  you  were  out  driving 
with,  this  afternoon.  I  know  it  is,"  continued  she,  as  she  observed 
Gertrude  change  color,  and  endeavor  to  hush  her,  while  she  looked 
anxiously  round,  as  if  fearful  the  remark  had  been  overheard  ;  "  is 
it  Willie,  Gertrude  ?  —  is  it  Mr.  Sullivan  ?  " 

Gertrude  became  more  and  more  embarrassed,  while  the  zra;^' 
chievous  Fanny  continued  to  ply  her  with  questions ;  and  Icabci, 
who  had  jealously  noticed  that  Willie's  eyes  wandered  more  thim 
once  to  the  table,  turned  on  her  such  a  scrutinizing  look  reu 
dered  her  confusion  distressing. 

U 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


Accident  came  to  her  relief,  however.  The  houiemstid,  with  the 
evening  paper,  endeavored  to  open  the  door,  against  which  he? 
ehair  was  placed;  thus  giving  her  an  opportunity  to  rise 
receive  the  paper,  and,  at  the  same  time,  an  unimportant  message 
While  she  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Clinton  left  his  chair,  with  tb^ 
feeble  step  of  an  invalid,  crossed  the  room,  addressed  a  questior 
in  a  low  voice  to  Willie,  and,  receiving  an  affirmatory  reply,  t<)Ok 
Isabel  by  the  hand,  and,  approaching  Mr.  Amory,  exclaimed,  witt 
deep  emotion,  "  Sir,  Mr.  Sullivan  tells  me  that  you  are  the  persoc 
who  saved  the  life  of  my  daughter ;  and  here  she  is  to  thank  you. 

Mr.  Amory  rose  and  flung  his  arm  over  the  shoulder  and  around 
the  waist  of  Gertrude,  who  was  passing  on  her  way  to  hand  the 
newspaper  to  Mr.  Graham,  and  who,  not  having  heard  the  remark 
of  Mr.  Clinton,  received  the  caress  with  a  sweet  smile  and  an  up- 
turned face.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Clinton  is  the  person  who 
saved  the  life  of  your  daugnter.  It  is  true  that  I  swam  with  her 
lo  the  shore ;  but  it  was  under  the  mistaken  impression  tha  t  I  was 
bearing  to  a  place  of  safety  my  own  darling  child,  whom  I  little 
suspected  then  of  having  voluntarily  relinquished  to  anothei  her 
only  apparent  chance  of  rescue." 

"Just  like  you,  Gertrude!  Just  like  you!"  shouted  Kitty 
and  Fanny  in  a  breath,  each  struggling  to  obtain  a  foremost  place 
in  the  little  circle  that  had  gathered  round  her. 

"  My  own  noble  Gertrude !  "  whispered  Emily,  as,  leaning  on 
Mr.  Amory's  arm,  she  pressed  Gertrude's  hand  to  her  lips. 

"  0,  Gertrude!  "  exclaimed  Isabel,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "I 
didn't  know.    I  never  thought  — " 

"Your  child?  "cried  Mrs.  Graham's  loud  voice,  interr  ipting 
Isabel's  unfinished  exclamation. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  thank  God ! "  said  Mr.  Amory,  reverently  ; 
« restored,  at  last,  to  her  unworthy  father,  and  —  you  have  no 
secrets  here,  my  darling  ?  "  —  Gertrude  shook  her  head,  and  glanced 
at  Willie,  who  now  stood  at  her  side,  —  "  and  gladly  bestowed  by 
him  upon  ber  faithful  and  far  more  deserving  lover."  And  he 
placed  her  linnd  in  Willie's-. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  All  were  impressed  with  the  so- 
lemnitj  of  th^  action.    Then  Mr.  Graham  came  forward,  shook 


THE  LAMPLIGHTm 


Ol 


^acK  01  the  young  couple  heartily  by  the  hand,  and,  passing  his 
sleeve  hastily  across  his  eyes,  souglit  his  customary  refuge  in  the 
library. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Fanny,  pulling  Gertrudc^'s  dress  to  attract  her 

attention,  and  speaking  in  a  loud  v?Li^per,  "are  you  engaged  ?  

are  you  engaged  to  him  ?  " 

Yes,''  whispered  Gertrude,  aBrdou.';,  if  possible,  to  gratify 
Fanny's  curiosity,  and  silence  her  questioning. 

"  0  !  I 'm  so  glad  !  I 'm  so  glad !  "  shouted  Fanny,  dancing 
round  the  room,  and  flinging  up  her  arms. 

"  And  I  'm  glad,  too  !  "  said  Gracie,  catching  the  tone  of  con 
gratulation,  and  putting  her  mouth  up  to  Gertrude  for  a  kiss. 

^' And  Jam  glad,"  said  Mr.  Clinton,  placing  his  hands  upon 
those  of  Willie  and  Gertrude,  which  were  still  clasped  together 
"  that  the  noble  and  self-sacrificing  girl,  whom  I  have  no  words 
to  thank,  and  no  power  to  repay,  has  reaped  a  worthy  reward  in 
the  love  of  one  of  the  few  men  with  whom  a  fond  father  may 
venture  wholly  io  trust  the  happiness  of  his  child." 

Exhausted  by  so  much  excitement,  Mr.  Clinton  now  complained 
of  sudden  faintness,  and  was  ai^.isted  to  his  room  by  Willie,  who, 
after  waiting  to  see  him  fully  restored,  returned  to  receive  the 
blessing  of  Emily  upon  his  new  hopes,  and  hear  with  wonder  and 
delight  the  circumstances  which  attended  the  discovery  of  Ger- 
trude's parentage. 

For,  although  it  was  an  appointment  to  meet  Mr.  Amory 
which  had  summoned  him  back  to  Boston,  and  he  had  in  the 
course  of  their  interview  acquainted  him  with  the  happy  termuia- 
tion  of  a  lover's  doubts,  he  had  not,  until  the  disclosure  took 
place  in  Mr.  Graham's  parlor,  received  in  return  the  slightest 
hint  of  the  great  surprise  which  awaited  him.  He  had  felt  a  little 
astonishment  at  his  friend's  expressed  desire  to  join  him  at  once 
in  a  visit  to  Mr.  Graham's ;  but,  on  being  informed  that  he  hud 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Graham  in  Germany,  he  concluded 
that  a  desire  to  renew  his  intercourse  with  the  family,  and  possi- 
bly a  slight  curiosity  to  see  the  lady  of  his  own  choice,  were  the 
only  motives  which  had  influenced  him. 

And  now,  amid  retrospections  of  the  fist,  thanksgiving  for  tL« 


520 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


preseiLt,  and  hopes  and  aspirations  for  the  future,  the  evenmi 
passed  rapidly  away. 

"  Come  here,  Gei  tj  !  "  said  Willie;  "  come  t3  the  window,  and 
gee  what  a  beautiful  night  it  is." 

It  was  indeed  a  glorious  night.  Snow  lay  on  the  ground.  The 
air  w^as  intensely  cold  without,  as  might  be  judged  from  the  quick 
movements  of  pedestrians,  and  the  brilliant  icicles  with  which 
everything  that  had  an  edge  was  fringed.  The  stars  were  glitter- 
ing, too,  as  they  never  glitter,  except  on  the  most  intense  of  winter 
nights.  The  moon  was  just  peeping  above  an  old  brown  building, 
—  the  same  old  corner  bu'lding  which  had  been  visible  from  "the 
door-step  where  Willie  and  Gerty  were  wont  to  sit  in  their  child- 
hood, and  from  behind  which  they  had  often  watched  the  coming 
of  that  same  round  moon. 

Leaning  on  Willie's  shoulder,  Gertrude  stood  gazing  until  the 
Pull  circle  was  visible  in  a  space  of  clear  and  cloudless  ether. 
Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  their  hearts  throbbed  with  the  same 
amotion,  as  they  thought  of  the  days  that  were  past. 

Just  then,  the  gas-man  came  quickly  up  the  street,  lit,  as  by  an 

.ectric  touch,  the  bright  burners  that  in  close  ranks  lined  either 
side-walk,  and  in  a  moment  more  was  out  of  sight. 

Gertrude  sighed.  "  It  was  no  such  easy  task  for  poor  ol^ 
Uncle  True,"  said  she  ;  "  there  have  been  great  improvements 
since  his  time." 

"There  have,  indeed!"  said  Willie,  glancing  round  the  well- 
lit,  warm  and  pleasantly-furnished  parlor  of  his  own  and  Ger- 
trude's home,  and  resting  his  eyes,  at  last,  upon  the  beloved  one 
by  his  side,  whose  beaming  face  but  reflected  back  his  own  happi- 
ness,  —  "  such  improvements,  Gerty,  as  we  only  dreamt  of  once 
I  wish  the  dear  old  man  could  be  here  to  see  and  share  them !  " 

A  tear  started  to  Gertrude's  eye  ;  but,  pressing  Wi.  lie's  arm, 
she  pointed  reverently  upward  to  a  beautiful,  bright  star,  just 
breaking  forth  from  a  silvery  film,  which  had  hitherto  half-over- 
shadowed  it ;  the  star  through  which  Gertrude  had  ever  fanc^^.i 
she  could  discern  the  smile  of  the  kind  old  man. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


521 


**Dear  Uncle  True!"  said  she,  *'his  lamp  still  burns  brightly 
la  heaveu,  Willie ;  and  its  light  is  not  jet  gone  out  on  earth  ! " 

In  a  beautiful  town  about  thirty  r/iilcs  from  Boston,  and  on  the 
shore  of  one  of  those  hill-embosoirjed  ponds  which  would  be  im- 
mortalized by  the  poet  in  a  country  less  rich  than  ours  with  such 
sheets  of  blue,  transparent  water,  there  stood  a  mansion-house  of 
solid  though  ancient  architecture.  It  had  been  the  property  of 
Philip  Amory's  paternal  grand-parents,  and  the  early  home  and 
3ole  inheritance  of  his  father,  who  so  cherished  the  spot  that  it 
was  only  with  great  reluctance  and  when  driven  to  the  act  by 
the  spur  of  poverty,  that  he  was  induced  to  part  with  the  much- 
valued  estate. 

To  reclaim  the  venerable  homestead,  repair  and  judiciously 
modernize  the  house,  and  fertilize  and  adorn  the  grounds,  was  a 
favorite  scheme  with  Philip.  His  ample  means  now  rendering 
it  practicable,  he  lost  no  time  in  putting  it  into  execution,  and^ 
the  spring  after  he  returned  from  his  wanderings,  saw  the  work 
in  a  fair  way  to  be  speedily  completed. 

In  the  mean  time,  Gertrude's  marriage  had  taken  place,  the 
vJrahams  had  removed  to  their  house  in  town  (which,  out  of  com- 
pliment to  Isabel,  who  was  passing  the  winter  with  her  aunt,  was 
more  than  ever  crowded  with  gay  company),  and  the  bustling 
mistress  was  already  projecting  changes  in  her  husband's  c'ountry- 
seat. 

And  Emily,  who  had  parted  with  her  greatest  treasuie,  and 
found  herself  in  an  atmosphere  which  was  little  in  harmony  with 
her  spirit,  murmured  not;  but,  contented  with  her  lot,  neither 
dreamed  of  nor  asked  for  outward  change,  until  Philip  came  to 
her  one  day,  and,  taking  her  hand,  said,  gently, 

"  This  is  no  home  for  you,  Emily.  You  are  as  much  alone  aa 
I  in  my  solitary  farm-house.  We  loved  each  other  in  childhood, 
our  hearts  became  one  in  youth,  and  have  continued  so  until 
now.  Why  should  we  be  longer  parted  ?  Your  father  will  not 
Dpposo  our  wishes;  and  will  you,  dearest,  refuse  to  bless  and 
gladdea  the  !onely  life  of  your  gray-haired  lover 
44# 


522 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


But  Emily  shook  her  head,  while  she  answered,  with  her  smile 

of  ineffable  sweetness, 

0,  no,  Philip  !  do  not  speak  of  it !    Think  of  my  frail  health 

and  my  helplessness !  " 

"  Your  health,  dear  Emily,  is  improving.  The  roses  are 
already  coming  back  to  your  cheeks  ;  and,  for  your  helplessness, 
what  task  can  be  so  sweet  to  me  as  teaching  you,  through  my 
devotion,  to  forget  it  ?  0,  do  not  send  me  away  disappointed, 
Emily !  A  cruel  fate  divided  us  for  years ;  do  not  by  your  own 
act  prolong  that  separation !  Believe  me,  a  union  with  my  early 
love  is  my  brightest,  my  only  hope  of  happiness  !  " 

And  she  did  not  withdraw  the  hand  which  he  held,  but  yielded 
the  other  also  to  his  fervent  clasp. 

"  My  only  thought  had  been,  dear  Philip,"  said  she,  "  that  ere 
this  I  should  have  been  called  to  my  Father's  home ;  and  even 
now  I  feel  many  a  warning  that  I  cannot  be  very  long  for  earth ; 
but  while  I  stay,  be  it  longer  or  shorter,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish. 
No  word  of  mine  shall  part  hearts  so  truly  one,  and  your  hom* 
shall  be  mine." 

And  when  the  grass  turned  green,  and  the  flowers  sent  up  their 
fragrance,  and  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches,  and  the  spring 
gales  blew  soft  and  made  a  gentle  ripple  on  the  water,  Emily 
came  to  live  on  the  hill-side  with  Philip.  And  Mrs.  Ellis  came 
too,  to  superintend  all  things,  and  especially  the  dairy,  which 
became  henceforth  her  pride.  She  had  long  since  tearfully  im- 
plored,  and  easily  obtained,  the  forgiveness  of  the  much-wronged 
t  hilip ;  and  proved,  by  the  humility  of  her  voluntary  confession^ 
that  ihe  was  not  without  a  woman's  heart. 

Mrs.  Prime  pleaded  hard  for  the  cook's  situation  at  the  faim ; 
but  Emily  kindly  expostulated  with  her,  saying, 

«  We  cannot  all  leave  my  father,  Mrs.  Prime.  Who  would 
see  to  his  hot  toast,  and  the  fire  in  the  library  ?  "  and  the  good 
old  woman  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light,  and  submitted. 

And  i  i  the  long-wandering,  much-suffering,  and  deeply-sorrow- 
ing exiU  happy  now  ?  He  is ;  but  his  peace  springs  not  frora 
his  beautiful  home,  his  wide  possessions,  an  honorable  repute 
among  his  fellow-men,  or  even  the  love  of  the  gentle  Emily. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


523 


All  these  are  blessings  that  he  well  knows  how  to  prize ;  but 
his  world-tried  soul  has  found  a  deeper  anchor  yet,  —  a  surer 
refuge  from  the  tempest  and  the  storm ;  for,  through  the  power 
of  a  living  faith,  he  has  laid  hold  on  eternal  life.  The  blind  girl's 
prayers  are  answered;  her  last,  best  work  is  done;  she  has  cast 
a  ra}'  from  her  blessed  spirit  into  his  darkened  soul ;  and,  should 
her  call  to  depart  soon  come,  she  will  leave  behind  one  to  follow 
in  her  footsteps,  fulfil  her  charities,  and  do  good  on  earth,  until 
such  time  as  he  be  summoned  to  join  her  again  in  heaven. 

As  they  go  forth  in  the  summer  evening,  to  breathe  the  balmy 
air,  listen  to  the  winged  songster  of  the  grove,  and  drink  in  the 
refreshing  influences  of  a  summer  sunset,  all  things  speak  a  holy 
peace  to  the  new-born  heart  of  him  who  has  so  long  been  a  man 
of  sorrow. 

As  the  sun  sinks  among  gorgeous  clouds,  as  the  western  light 
grows  dim,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  come  forth  in  their 
solemn  beauty,  they  utter  a  lesson  to  his  awakened  soul ;  and  the 
voice  of  nature  around,  and  the  still,  small  voice  within,  whisper, 
in  gentlest,  holiest  accents, 

"  The  sun  shall  be  no  more  thy  light  by  day,  neither  for  bright- 
ness shall  the  moon  give  light  unto  thee ;  but  the  Lord  shall  be 
unto  thee  an  everlasting  light,  and  thy  God  thy  glory." 

"  Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thy  moon  with- 
draw itself;  for  the  Lord  shall  be  thine  everlasting  light,  and 
the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be  ended." 


THE  muD 


0- 


